IBRARY, 


E   T   S, 


PUBLISH 


SELECTIONS 


THE    AMERICAN    POETS. 


BY 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


NEW- YORK- 
HARPER   &    BROTHERS,   82   CLIFF-STREET 

1840. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1840,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New -York 


TO     THE     READER. 


THIS  collection,  although  embracing  specimens 
from  the  writings  of  a  very  great  number  of 
American  poets,  may  not  yet  contain  the  names 
of  all  who  deserve  admission.  Of  some  authors, 
however,  the  best  things,  in  a  literary  point  of 
view,  are  of  a  nature  which  did  not  fall  within  the 
plan  of  the  compiler.  Amatory  poems  and  drink 
ing  songs,  notwithstanding  the  skill  or  the  spirit 
with  which  they  might  be  written,  have  been  inva 
riably  excluded,  as  not  proper  for  a  book  designed 
to  be  placed  in  a  school  or  family  library,  and,  there 
fore,  to  be  read  by  very  young  persons.  If  it  had 
been  the  sole  object  of  the  compiler  to  present 
samples  of  the  poetical  literature  of  his  country, 
he  would  have  adopted  a  less  rigid  rule  in  this  re 
spect.  There  are  also  scattered  in  our  magazines 
and  other  periodicals  many  poems  of  much  merit, 
some  accompanied  by  the  names  of  their  authors, 
and  others,  the  authorship  of  which  might  with 
due  pains  be  ascertained,  which  would  add  to  the 
value  and  interest  of  a  compilation  like  this.  The 
jity  of  preparing  the  work  for  the  press  within 


M737524 


IV  TO   THE    READER. 

a  stipulated  time  has,  however,  prevented  the  com 
piler  from  making  the  necessary  researches  for 
the  purpose,  except  in  a  few  instances ;  and,  even  if 
the  time  had  been  sufficient,  the  size  of  the  vol. 
ume  would  not  have  permitted  a  much  more  va 
rious  selection  than  has  been  made.  If  this  vol. 
ume  should  meet  with  a  favourable  reception  from 
the  public,  another  may  be  prepared  from  the  ma 
terials  yet  untouched. 

New-York,  October,  1840. 


CONTENTS. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU.  *& 

Columbus  to  Ferdinand        .        .        .        .         .13 

The  Dying  Indian 15 

The  Indian  Burying-ground          .         .         .         .17 
Stanzas   occasioned   by   Lord   Bellamont's,   Lady 
Hay's,  and  other  skeletons  being  dug  up  in  Fort 
George  (N.  Y.),  1790 19 

JOEL  BARLOW. 

The  Hasty  Pudding 20 

ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 

The  Sleep  of  Papantzin        .         .         ..       '.'''•    .  30 

Waking  of  Papantzin  in  the  Sepulchre          .        .  33 

Good- night 36 

The  Dead  of  1882 37 

JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE. 

Descent  of  the  Judge  and  his  Angels  .  .  .39 
Adam,  Cgesar,  and  Abraham  at  the  Resurrection  .  41 
Last  setting  of  the  Sun  and  Moon  .  .  .42 
Scene  from  Hadad 44 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

The  Country  Schoolmaster 50 

The  Social  Visit 50 

The  Destruction  of  the  Pequods  .        .        .        .52 

JOHN  TRUMBULL. 

Character  of  M'Fingal 61 

ST.  JOHN  HONEYWOOD. 

Inefficacy  of  Punishments 65 

WILLIAM  CLIFTON. 

Ancient  and  Modern  Literature    .         .        .        .65 


Vl  CONTENTS. 

WASHINGTON  ALSTON.  j^. 

The  Sylph  of  Spring 68 

The  Paint-King 70 

Rosalie        .         . 76 

RICHARD  H.  DANA. 

Murder  of  a  Spanish  Lady  by  a  Pirate  .  .  .77 
The  Husband's  and  Wife's  Grave  .  .  .81 
Daybreak 84 

NATHANIEL  P.  WILLIS. 

The  Baptism  of  Christ         .        .        .        .        .87 

Spring 89 

April  »        * 90 

The  Belfry  Pigeon       .         .  .         .         .91 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

Journey  of  the  Culprit  Fay  .  .  «  .  .92 
Bronx 98 

WILLIAM  LEGGETT. 

A  Sacred  Melody         .        ;  .    ^  .     99 

JOHN  G.  C.  BRAIN ARD. 

The  Fall  of  Niagara 100 

Mr.  Merry's  Lament  for  "  Long  Tom"  .         .  101 

The  Indian  Summer 102 

"  The  Dead  Leaves  strow  the  Forest  Walk"          .  102 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 

Scene  from  Atalantis 104 

The  edge  of  the  Swamp 109 

RUFUS  DAWES. 

To  an  Infant  sleeping  in  a  Garden  .  .  .110 
Sunrise  from  Mount  Washington  .  .  .111 

LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  Prophecy 112 

To  a  Lady  whose  Singing  resembled  that  of  an  Ab 
sent  Sister        .         .  »         .  112 


CONTENTS.  VII 

MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON.  r^ 

Home '      .  115 

To  my  Mother 115 

CARLOS  WILCOX. 

Spring  in  New-England 117 


September 
The  Castle  of  Imagination 
Rousseau  and  Cowper 
The  Cure  of  Melancholy 


.  120 
.  121 

.   125 
.  127 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

Burns 129 

Red  Jacket 133 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  Light  of  Stars      .       '.  .        .         .136 

Footsteps  of  Angela 137 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry    .       '.         .         .         .         .  13£ 

OHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

The  Force  of  Curiosity 140 

The  Traveller's  Fate 142 

I  see  thee  still    .......  144 

The  Family  Meeting 145 

The  Winged  Worshippers    .        .        .        .        .147 

EDWARD  C.  PINKNEY. 

The  Indian's  Bride      .        .        .        .        .        .148 

Memory 151 

EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

Christ  in  the  Tempest 151 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Moravian  Burial-ground  at 
Bethlehem       ...;...  153 

HENRY  PICKERING. 

The  Last  Days  of  Autumn 154 

JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL. 

The  Patriarchal  Age 155 

The  Sun 157 

The  Deserted  Wife 162 

The  Coral  Grove 163 

Clouds 164 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

JAMES  WALLIS  EASTBURN.  P^ 

Evening  on  Narraganset  Bay         .         .         .         .166 

Song  of  an  Indian  Mother 169 

Philip's  Dream 170 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 

The  Power  of  Music 173 

For  a  Celebration  of  the  Massachusetts  Mechanics' 

Charitable  Association 176 

The  Exile  at  Rest 178 

Her  Chosen  Spot 179 

For  the  Charlestown  Centennial  Celebration          .  180 

GEORGE  HILL. 

From  the  Ruins  of  Athens 182 

The  Mountain  Girl 185 

The  Lost  Pleiad          .'.....  187 
Autumn  Noon 188 

GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 

Thermopylae 188 

The  Waters  of  Marah          .         .         .         .         .189 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY. 

Indian  Names 190 

Contentment 191 

The  Western  Emigrant 192 

The  Widow's  Charge  at  her  Daughter's  Bridal      .  194 

HANNAH  F.' GOULD. 

The  Pebble  and  the  Acorn 195 

The  Waterfall 197 

The  Dream 198 

The  Child  on  the  Beach       .        .        ,        .        .200 

PROSPER  M.  WETMORE. 

"  Twelve  Years  have  flown"          .         .         ,         .203 

WILLIAM  C.  BRYANT. 

The  Past 204 

The  Prairies 206 

The  Rivulet 209 

"  Earth's  Children  cleave  to  Earth"       .        ,        .212 


CONTENTS.  IX 

JAMES  K.  PAULDING.  R^ 

Passage  down  the  Ohio 212 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

The  Female  Martyr      .        .        .        ...         .  214 

The  Worship  of  Nature 216 

Pentucket 218 

JONATHAN  LAWRENCE. 

Look  Aloft .220 

To on  the  Death  of  a  favourite  Bird      .        .221 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

The  Cambridge  Churchyard          .        .        .        .223 

Old  Ironsides 226 

The  Treadmill  Song 227 

JOHN  H.  BRYANT. 

"  And  I  went  and  washed,  and  I  received  sight"     .  228 
My  Native  Village 229 

ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 

Lake  Ontario 230 

The  Vanity  of  the  Vulgar  Great  .        .        .        .232 
To  the  Whipporwill 233 

GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 

Mount  Washington S33 

JAMES  G.  BROOKS. 

Joy  and  Sorrow 235 

ANNE  MARIA  WELLS. 

The  White  Hare 335 

To  a  Young  Mother 237 

CAROLINE  OILMAN. 

To 237 

SARAH  J.  HALE. 

The  Rose-tree  at  the  Birthplace  of  Washington      .  238 

CHARLES  F.  HOFFMAN. 

Indian  Summer   ....  .  240 


X  CONTENTS. 

PARK  BENJAMIN.  rtgt 

Sonnet •  r  i ;,-.-«.;  jy «,..,.  .  241 

Sonnet 241 

WILLIAM  B.  TAPPAN. 

The  twenty  thousand  Children  of  the  Sabbath 
Schools  in  New- York  celebrating  together  the  4th 
of  July,  1839 242 

.GEORGE  LUNT. 

Autumn  Musings 243 

EPES  SARGENT. 

A  Wish 246 

JOHN  NEAL. 

The  Soldier's  Visit  to  his  Family          .        .        .246 
ROBERT  M.  CHARLTON. 

To  the  River  Ogeechee 248 

JONES  VERY. 

To  the  Canary  Bird 249 

The  Tree 249 

The  Wind-Flower 250 

The  Son     .    ••  .     • 250 

Enoch 251 

The  Living  God 251 

FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 

The  Morning  Walk,  or  the  Stolen  Blush        .        .  252 

ANDREW  NORTON. 

Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower      .        .        •        .  253 

W.  O.  P.  PEABODY. 

Hymn  of  Nature 254 

The  Autumn  Evening 256 

ELIZABETH  TOWNSEND. 

Incomprehensibility  of  God 267 

SENRY  WARE,  JR. 

To  the  Ursa  Major 268 

The  Vision  of  Liberty 263 


CONTENTS.  3Q 

W.  E.  GALLAUDET.  j^, 

Lines  to  the  Western  Mummy      ....  265 

J.  M'LELLAN,  JR. 

The  Notes  of  the  Birds 267 

MICAH  P.  FLINT. 

Lines  on  passing  the  Grave  of  my  Sister  .  .  270 
GEORGE  H.  CALVERT. 

Washington.     From  Andre  and  Arnold,  a  Dramatic 
fragment 271 

ALFRED  B.  STREET. 

A  Forest  Walk 273 

An  American  Forest  Spring         «...  276 

J.  K.  MITCHELL. 

Song  of  the  Prairie  .  •.  •.  .  •  .278 
EDWARD  SANFORD. 

Address  to  Black  Hawk       ......  280 

J.  B.  VAN  SCHAICK. 

Joshua  commanding  the  Sun  and  Moon  to  stand  still  283 
CLEMENT  C.  MOORE. 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas  .  .  .  .  .285 
LUCY  HOOPER. 

The  Daughter  of  Herodias  .  .  .  .  .287 
THOMAS  C.  UPHAM. 

The  Millennial  Day 288 

God  Worshipped  in  his  Works     .        .        .        .289 

ELIZA  FOLLEN. 

Nahant        ........  289 

W.  J.  SNELLING. 

The  Birth  of  Thunder          .        .        «-       .        .  290' 


X  CONTENTS. 

WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK.  ^ 

The  Burial-place  at  Laurel  Hill    .         .         .         .295 

The  Early  Dead 296 

Death  of  the  Firstborn 297 

ALBERT  PIKE. 

To  Spring 298 

H.  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

Tri-Mountain 300 

SEBA  SMITH. 

The  Mother  perishing  in  a  Snowstorm  .  .  .  302 
NEHEMIAH  CLEAVELAND. 

An  Air- Chateau 303 

WILLIAM  D.  GALLAHER. 

August .  .  304 

ELIZABETH  PARK. 

Scene  from "  Miriam"          .        ,        .       >^.    .306 


SELECTIONS 


AMERICAN     POETS. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


COLUMBUS    TO    FERDINAND. 

Columbus  was  a  considerable  number  of  years  engaged  in  so 
liciting  the  court  of  Spain  to  fit  him  out,  in  order  to  discover 
a  new  continent,  which  he  imagined  to  exist  somewhere  in 
the  western  parts  of  the  ocean.  During  his  negotiations,  he 
is  here  supposed  to  address  King  Ferdinand  in  the  following 
stanzas. 

ILLUSTRIOUS  monarch  of  Iberia's  soil, 
Too  long  I  wait  permission  to  depart ; 
Sick  of  delays,  I  beg  thy  listening  ear — 
Shine  forth  the  patron  and  the  prince  of  art. 

While  yet  Columbus  breathes  the  vital  air, 
Grant  his  request  to  pass  the  western  main : 
Reserve  this  glory  for  thy  native  soil, 
And,  what  must  please  thee  more,  for  thy  ow^  reign* 

Of  this  huge  globe,  how  small  a  part  we  know — 
Does  heaven  their  worlds  to  western  suns  deny  ? 
How  disproportion'd  to  the  mighty  deep 
The  lands  that  yet  in  human  prospect  lie ! 

Does  Cynthia,  when  to  western  skies  arrived, 
Spend  her  moist  beam  upon  the  barren  main, 
And  ne'er  illume  with  midnight  splendour,  she, 
The  natives  dancing  on  the  lightsome  green  ? 
B 


14  PHILIP  FRENEAU. 

Should  the  vast  circuit  of  the  world  contain 
Such  wastes  of  ocean  and  such  scanty  land  ? 
'Tis  reason's  voice  that  bids  me  think  not  so ; 
I  think  more  nobly  of  the  Almighty  hand. 

Does  yon  fair  lamp  trace  half  the  circle  round 
To  light  mere  waves  and  monsters  of  the  seas  1 
No ;  be  there  must,  beyond  the  billowy  waste, 
Islands,  and  men,  and  animals,  and  trees. 

An  unremitting  flame  my  breast  inspires 
To  seek  new  lands  amid  the  barren  waves, 
Where,  falling  low,  the  source  of  day  descends,- 
And  the  blue  sea  his  evening  visage  laves. 

Hear,  in  his  tragic  lay,  Cordova's  sage  :* 
"  The  time  may  come,  when  numerous  years  are  past y 
When  ocean  will  unloose  the  bands  of  things. 
And  an  unbounded  region  rise  at  last ; 

And  TYPHIS  may  disclose  the  mighty  land, 
Far,  far  away,  where  none  have  roved  before  ; 
Nor  will  the  world's  remotest  region  be 
Gibraltar's  rock,  or  THULE'S  savage  shore." 

Fired  at  the  theme,  I  languish  to  depart ; 
Supply  the  bark,  and  bid  Columbus  sail ; 
He  fears  no  storms  upon  the  untravelTd  deep ; 
Reason  shall  steer,  and  skill  disarm  the  gale. 

Nor  does  he  dread  to  miss  the  intended  course, 
Though  far  from  land  the  reeling  galley  stray, 
And  skies  above,  and  gulfy  seas  below, 
Be  the  sole  objects  seen  for  many  a  day. 

*  Seneca,  the  poet,  a  native  of  Cordova  in  Spain  :• 
"  Venient  annis  secula  seris, 
Quibus  oceanus  vincula  rerum 
Laxet,  et  ingens  pateat  tellus, 
Typhisque  novos  detegat  orbes ; 
Nee  sitterris  ultima  Thule." 

Seneca,  Med.,  act  iii.,  v.  375. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU.  15 

Think  not  that  Nature  has  unveiled  in  vain 
The  mystic  magnet  to  the  mortal  eye  : 
So  late  have  we  the  guiding  needle  planned 
Only  to  sail  beneath  our  native  sky  1 

Ere  this  was  known,  the  ruling  power  of  all 
Formed  for  our  use  an  ocean  in  the  land, 
Its  breadth  so  small  we  could  not  wander  long, 
Nor  long  be  absent  from  the  neighbouring  strand. 

Short  was  the  course,  and  guided  by  the  stars, 
But  stars  no  more  must  point  our  daring  way ; 
The  Bear  shall  sink,  and  every  guard  be  drcwned, 
And  great  Arcturus  scarce  escape  the  sea, 

When  southward  we  shall  steer.     Oh  grant  my  wish, 
Supply  the  bark,  and  bid  Columbus  sail ; 
He  dreads  no  tempests  on  the  untravelled  deep ; 
Reason  shall  steer,  and  skill  disarm  the  gale. 


THE  DYING  INDIAN. — Tomo-  Chequi. 

"  ON  yonder  lake  I  spread  the  sail  no  more ! 
Vigour,  and  youth,  and  active  days  are  past ; 
Relentless  demons  urge  me  to  that  shore 
On  whose  black  forests  all  the  dead  are  cast : 
Ye  solemn  train,  prepare  the  funeral  song, 
For  I  must  go  to  shades  below, 
Where  all  is  strange  and  all  is  new ; 
Companion  to  the  airy  throng ! 

What  solitary  streams, 

In  dull  and  dreary  dreams, 
All  melancholy,  must  I  rove  along ! 

To  what  strange  lands  must  Chequi  take  his  way  ! 
Groves  of  the  dead  departed  mortals  trace  ; 
No  deer  along  those  gloomy  forests  stray, 
No  huntsmen  there  take  pleasure  in  the  chase, 


16  PHILIP    FRENEAU. 

But  all  are  empty,  unsubstantial  shades, 
That  ramble  through  those  visionary  glades ; 
No  spongy  fruits  from  verdant  trees  depend, 

But  sickly  orchards  there 

Do  fruits  as  sickly  bear, 
And  apples  a  consumptive  visage  shew, 
And  withered  hangs  the  hurtleberry  blue. 

Ah  me !  what  mischiefs  on  the  dead  attend ! 
Wandering  a  stranger  to  the  shores  below, 
Where  shall  I  brook  or  real  fountain  find  ? 
Lazy  and  sad  deluding  waters  flow : 
Such  is  the  picture  in  my  boding  mind ! 

Fine  tales,  indeed,  they  tell 

Of  shades  and  purling  rills, 

Where  our  dead  fathers  dwell 

Beyond  the  western  hills ; 
But  when  did  ghost  return  his  state  to  show, 
Or  who  can  promise  half  the  tale  is  true  1 

I  too  must  be  a  fleeting  ghost !  no  more ; 
None,  none  but  shadows  to  those  mansions  go ; 
I  leave  my  woods,  I  leave  the  Huron  shore, 
For  emptier  groves  below ! 
Ye  charming  solitudes, 
Ye  tall  ascending  woods, 
Ye  glassy  lakes  and  prattling  streams, 
Whose  aspect  still  was  sweet, 
Whether  the  sun  did  greet, 
Or  the  pale  moon  embraced  you  with  her  beams- 
Adieu  to  all ! 

To  all  that  charmed  me  where  I  strayed, 
The  winding  stream,  the  dark,  sequestered  shade ; 

Adieu  all  triumphs  here ! 
Adieu  the  mountain's  lofty  swell, 
Adieu,  thou  little  verdant  hill, 
And  seas,  and  stars,  and  skies— farewell, 
For  some  remoter  sphere ! 


PHILIP    FRENEAU.  17 

Perplexed  with  doubts,  and  tortured  with  despair, 
Why  so  dejected  at  this  hopeless  sleep  ? 
Nature  at  last  these  ruins  may  repair,  [weep ; 

When  fate's  long  dream  is  o'er,  and  she  forgets  to 
Some  real  world  once  more  may  be  assign'd, 
Some  newborn  mansion  for  the  immortal  mind ! 
Farewell,  sweet  lake  ;  farewell,  surrounding  woods, 
To  other  groves,  through  midnight  glooms,  I  stray, 
Beyond  the  mountains  and  beyond  the  floods, 

Beyond  the  Huron  Bay ! 
Prepare  the  hollow  tomb,  and  place  me  low, 
My  trusty  bow  and  arrows  by  my  side, 
The  cheerful  bottle  and  the  venison  store  ; 
For  long  the  journey  is  that  I  must  go, 
Without  a  partner  and  without  a  guide." 

He  spoke,  and  bid  the  attending  mourners  weep, 
Then  closed  his  eyes,  and  sunk  to  endless  sleep ! 


THE    INDIAN    BURYING-GROUND. 

IN  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 
I  still  my  old  opinion  keep ; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead, 
Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands  : 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 
Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast.* 

His  imaged  birds  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison  for  a  journey  dressed, 
Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity,  that  knows  no  rest. 

*  The  North  American  Indians  bury  their  dead  in  a  sitting 
posture ;  decorating  the  corpse  with  wampum,  the  images  of 
birds,  quadrupeds,  &c. ;  and,  if  that  of  a  warrior,  with  bows,  ar. 
rows,  tomahawks,  and  other  military  weapons. 
B2 


18  PHILIP    FRENEAU. 

His  bow  for  action  ready  bent, 
And  arrows  with  a  head  of  stone, 
Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  old  ideas  gone. 

Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit ; 
Observe  the  swelling  turf,  and  say, 
They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 
On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 
(Now  wasted  half  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 
Beneath  whose  far-projecting  shade 
(And  which  the  shepherd  still-  admires) 
The  children  of  the  forest  played ! 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen 
(Pale  Shebah,  with  her  braided  hair), 
And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen, 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  habit  for  the  chase  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer,  a  shade ! 

And  long  shall  timorous  fancy  see 
The  painted  chief  and  pointed  spear, 
And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU.  19 


STANZAS  OCCASIONED  BY  LORD  BELLAMONT's,  LADY  HAY'S,  AND 
OTHER   SKELETONS  BEING  DUG  UP  IN  FORT  GEORGE  (N.  Y.), 

1790. 

To  sleep  in  peace  when  life  is  fled, 
Where  shall  our  mouldering  bones  be  laid  ; 
What  care  can  shun  (I  ask  with  tears) 
The  shovels  of  succeeding  years  ! 

Some  have  maintained,  when  life  is  gone, 
This  frame  no  longer  is  our  own : 
Hence  doctors  to  our  tombs  repair, 
And  seize  death's  slumbering  victims  there. 

Alas !  what  griefs  must  man  endure  ! 
Not  even  in  forts  he  rests  secure  : 
Time  dims  the  splendours  of  a  crown, 
And  brings  the  loftiest  rampart  down. 

The  breath,  once  gone,  no  art  recalls ! 
Away  we  haste  to  vaulted  walls  : 
Some  future  whim  inverts  the  plain, 
And  stars  behold  our  bones  again. 

Those  teeth,  dear  girls — so  much  your  care — 
(With  which  no  ivory  can  compare), 
Like  these  (that  once  were  Lady  Hay's), 
May  serve  the  belles  of  future  days. 

Then  take  advice  from  yonder  scull ; 
And,  when  the  flames  of  life  grow  dull, 
Leave  not  a  tooth  in  either  jaw, 
Since  dentists  steal — and  fear  no  law. 

He  that  would  court  a  sound  repose, 
To  barren  hills  and  deserts  goes  : 
Where  busy  hands  admit  no  sun, 
Where  he  may  doze  till  all  is  done. 


20  JOEL    BARLOW. 

Yet  there,  even  there,  though  slily  laid, 
'Tis  folly  to  defy  the  spade  ; 
Posterity  invades  the  hill, 
And  plants  our  relics  where  she  will. 

But  oh !  forbear  the  rising  sigh ! 
All  care  is  past  with  them  that  die  : 
Jove  gave,  when  they  to  fate  resign'd, 
An  opiate  of  the  strongest  kind  : 

Death  is  a  sleep  that  has  no  dreams, 
In  which  all  time  a  moment  seems  ; 
And  skeletons  perceive  no  pain 
TilJ  Nature  bids  them  wake  again. 


JOEL  BARLOW. 
THE  HASTY  PUDDING. 

CANTO  I. 

YE  Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens  that  rise, 
To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me  from  the  skies ; 
Ye  Gallic  flags,  that  o'er  their  heights  unfurl'd, 
Bear  death  to  kings  and  freedom  to  the  world, 
I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  choose, 
A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  muse, 
But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 
The  purest  phrensy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  bards  to  terror  steel'd, 
Who  hurl  your  thunders  round  the  epic  field ; 
Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats  to  sing 
Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  stillhouse  bring ; 
Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  employ, 
And  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  enjoy. 
I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,,  the  charms  I  feel, 
My  morning  incense,  and  my  evening  meal, 
The  sweets  of  Hasty  Pudding.     Come,  dear  bowl, 
.Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 


JOEL    BARLOW.  21 

The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  the  kine, 
Its  substance  mingled,  married  in  with  thine, 
Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 
And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

Oh !  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 
Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue, 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime, 
And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme, 
No  more  thy  awkward,  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  muse  or  prejudice  thy  fame ; 
But,  rising  grateful  to  the  accustom'd  ear, 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere ! 

Assist  me  first  with  pious  toil  to  trace 
Through  wrecks  of  time  thy  lineage  and  thy  race ; 
Declare  what  lovely  squaw,  in  days  of  yore 
(Ere  great  Columbus  sought  thy  native  shore), 
First  gave  thee  to  the  world ;  her  works  of  fame 
Have  lived  indeed,  but  lived  without  a  name 
Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days,       [maize, 
First  learn'd  with  stones  to  crack  the  well-dried 
Through  the  rough  sieve  to  shake  the  golden  shower, 
In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  flour  : 
The  yellow  flour,  bestrew'd  and  stirr'd  with  haste, 
Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 
Then  puffs  and  wallops,  rises  to  the  brim, 
Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface  swim ; 
The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks, 
And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence  takes. 

Could  but  her  sacred  name,  unknown  so  long, 
Rise,  like  her  labours,  to  the  son  of  song, 
To  her,  to  them,  I'd  consecrate  my  lays, 
And  blow  her  pudding  with  the  breath  of  praise. 
Not  through  the  rich  Peruvian  realms  alone 
The  fame  of  Sol's  sweet  daughter  should  be  known, 
But  o'er  the  world's  wide  clime  should  live  secure, 
Far  as  his  rays  extend,  as  long  as  they  endure. 

Dear  Hasty  Pudding,  what  unpromised  joy 
Expands  my  heart,  to  meet  thee  in  Savoy ! 


JOEL   BARLOW. 

JDoom'd  o'er  the  world  through  devious  paths  to  roam, 
Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house  my  home, 
My  soul  is  soothed,  my  cares  have  found  an  end, 
I  greet  my  long-lost,  unforgotten  friend. 

For  thee  through  Paris,  that  corrupted  town, 
How  long  in  vain  I  wandered  up  and  down, 
Where  shameless  Bacchus,  with  his  drenching  hoard, 
Cold  from  his  cave  usurps  the  morning  board. 
London  is  lost  in  smoke  and  steep'd  in  tea ; 
No  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of  thee ; 
The  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town, 
Would  call  a  proclamation  from  the  crown. 
For  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's  full  rays, 
Chill'd  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous  maize : 
A  grain  whose  rich,  luxuriant  growth  requires 
Short  gentle  showers,  and  bright  ethereal  fires. 

But  here,  though  distant  from  our  native  shore, 
With  mutual  glee,  we  meet  and  laugh  once  more, 
The  same !  I  know  thee  by  that  yellow  face, 
That  strong  complexion  of  true  Indian  race, 
Which  time  can  never  change,  nor  soil  impair, 
Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid  air ; 
For  endless  years,  through  every  mild  domain, 
Where  grows  the  maize,  there  thou  art  sure  to  reign. 

But  man,  more  fickle,  the  bold  license  claims, 
In  different  realms  to  give  thee  different  names. 
Thee  the  soft  nations  round  the  warm  Levant 
Polanta  call ;  the  French,  of  course,  Polante. 
E'en  in  thy  native  regions,  how  I  blush 
To  hear  the  Pennsylvanians  call  thee  Mush ! 
On  Hudson's  banks,  while  men  of  Belgic  spawn 
Insult  and  eat  thee  by  the  name  of  Suppawn. 
All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth  ; 
I've  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest  youth, 
Thy  name  is  Hasty  Pudding !  thus  our  sires 
Were  won't  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  their  fires ; 
And  while  they  argued  in  thy  just  defence 
With  logic  clear,  they  thus  explained  the  sense : 


JOEL    BARLOW.  23 

"  In  haste  the  boiling  caldron,  o'er  the  blaze, 
Receives  and  cooks  the  ready  powder'd-maize  ; 
In  haste  'tis  served,  and  then  in  equal  haste, 
With  cooling  milk,  we  make  the  sweet  repast. 
No  carving  to  be  done,  no  knive  to  grate 
The  tender  ear  and  wound  the  stony  plate  ; 
But  the  smooth  spoon,  just  fitted  to  the  lip, 
And  taught  with  art  the  yielding  mass  to  dip, 
By  frequent  journeys  to  the  bowl  well  stored* 
Performs  the  hasty  honours  of  the  board." 
Such  is  thy  name,  significant  and  clear, 
A  name,  a  sound  to  every  Yankee  dear, 
But  most  to  me,  whose  heart  and  palate  chaste 
Preserve  my  pure  hereditary  taste. 

There  are  who  strive  to  stamp  with  disrepute 
The  luscious  food,  because  it  feeds  the  brute  ; 
In  tropes  of  high-strain'd  wit,  while  gaudy  prigs 
Compare  thy  nursling  man  to  pamper'd  pigs  ; 
With  sovereign  scorn  I  treat  the  vulgar  jest, 
Nor  fear  to  share  thy  bounties  with  the  beast. 
What  though  the  generous  cow  gives  me  to  quaff 
The  milk  nutritious ;  am  I  then  a  calf? 
Or  can  the  genius  of  the  noisy  swine, 
Though  nursed  on  pudding,  thence  lay  claim  to  mine  T 
Sure  the  sweet  song  I  fashion  to  thy  praise, 
Runs  more  melodious  than  the  notes  they  raise. 

My  song  resounding  in  its  grateful  glee, 
No  merit  claims  :  I  praise  myself  in  thee. 
My  father  loved  thee  through  his  length  of  days ! 
For  thee  his  fields  were  shaded  o'er  with  maize  ; 
From  theie  what  health,  what  vigour  he  possess'd, 
Ten  sturdy  freemen  from  his  loins  attest ; 
Thy  constellation  ruled  my  natal  morn, 
And  all  my  bones  were  made  of  Indian  corn. 
Delicious  grain !  whatever  form  it  take, 
To  roast  or  boil,  to-  smother  or  to  bake, 
In  every  dish  'tis  welcome  still  to  me, 
BUt  most,  my  Hasty  Pudding,  most  in  thee. 


24  JOEL    BARLOW. 

Let  the  green  succotash  with  thee  contend, 
Let  beans  and  corn  their  sweetest  juices  blend, 
Let  butter  drench  them  in  its  yellow  tide, 
And  a  long  slice  of  bacon  grace  their  side ; 
Not  all  the  plate,  how  famed  soe'er  it  be, 
Can  please  my  palate  like  a  bowl  of  thee. 
Some  talk  of  Hoe-Cake,  fair  Virginia's  pride, 
Rich  Johnny-Cake  this  mouth  hath  often  tried ; 
Both  please  me  well,  their  virtues  much  the  same, 
Alike  their  fabric,  as  allied  their  fame, 
Except  in  dear  New-England,  where  the  last 
Receives  a  dash  of  pumpkin  in  the  paste, 
To  give  it  sweetness  and  improve  the  taste. 
But  place  them  all  before  me,  smoking  hot, 
The  big,  round  dumpling,  rolling  from  the  pot ; 
The  pudding  of  the  bag,  whose  quivering  breast, 
With  suet  lined,  leads  on  the  Yankee  feast ; 
The  Charlotte  brown,  within  whose  crusty  sides 
A  belly  soft  the  pulpy  apple  hides ; 
The  yellow  bread,  whose  face  like  amber  glows, 
And  all  of  Indian  that  the  bakepan  knows, 
You  tempt  me  not ;  my  fav'rite  greets  my  eyes, 
To  that  loved  bowl  my  spoon  by  instinct  flies. 


To  mix  the  food  by  vicious  rules  of  art, 
To  kill  the  stomach  and  to  sink  the  heart, 
To  make  mankind  to  social  virtue  sour, 
Cram  o'er  each  dish,  and  be  what  they  devour ; 
For  this  the  kitchen  muse  first  framed  her  book, 
Commanding  sweat  to  stream  from  every  cook ; 
Children  no  more  their  antic  gambols  tried, 
And  friends  to  physic  wonder'd  why  they  died. 

Not  so  the  Yankee  :  his  abundant  feast, 
With  simples  furnish'd  and  with  plainness  dress'd, 
A  numerous  offspring  gathers  round  the  board, 
And  cheers  alike  the  servant  and  the  lord ; 
Whose  well-bought  hunger  prompts  the  joyous  taste, 
And  health  attends  them  from  the  short  repast. 


JOEL    BARLOW.  25 

While  the  full  pail  rewards  the  milkmaid's  toil, 
The  mother  sees  the  morning  caldron  boil ; 
To  stir  the  pudding  next  demands  their  care  ; 
To  spread  the  table  and  the  bowls  prepare  : 
To  feed  the  children  as  their  portions  cool, 
And  comb  their  heads,  and  send  them  off  to  school. 

Yet  may  the  simplest  dish  some  rules  impart, 
For  nature  scorns  not  all  the  aids  of  art. 
E'en  Hasty  Pudding,  purest  of  all  food, 
May  still  be  bad,  indifferent,  or  good, 
As  sage  experience  the  short  process  guides, 
Or  want  of  skill,  or  want  of  care  presides. 
Whoe'er  would  form  it  on  the  surest  plan, 
To  rear  the  child  and  long  sustain  the  man ; 
To  shield  the  morals  while  it  mends  the  size, 
And  all  the  powers  of  every  food  supplies, 
Attend  the  lesson  that  the  muse  shall  bring ; 
Suspend  your  spoOns,  and  listen  while  I  sing. 

But  since,  oh  man !  thy  life  and  health  demand 
Not  food  alone,  but  labour  from  thy  hand, 
First  in  the  field,  beneath  the  sun's  strong  rays, 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth  the  needful  maize  ; 
She  loves  the  race  that  courts  her  yielding  soil, 
And  gives  her  bounties  to  the  sons  of  toil. 

When  now  the  ox,  obedient  to  thy  call, 
Repays  the  loan  that  fill'd  the  winter  stall, 
Pursue  his  traces  o'er  the  furrow'd  plain, 
And  plant  in  measured  hills  the  golden  grain. 
But  when  the  tender  germe  begins  to  shoot, 
And  the  green  spire  declares  the  sprouting  root, 
Then  guard  your  nursling  from  each  greedy  foe, 
The  insidious  worm,  the  all-devouring  crow. 
A  little  ashes  sprinkled  round  the  spire, 
Soon  steep'd  in  rain,  will  bid  the  worm  retire ; 
The  feather'd  robber  with  his  hungry  maw 
Swift  flies  the  field  before  your  man  of  straw, 
A  frightful  image,  such  as  schoolboys  bring, 
When  met  to  burn  the  pope  or  hang  the  king. 


26  JOEL    BARLOW. 

Thrice  in  the  season,  through  each  verdant  row, 
Wield  the  strong  ploughshare  and  the  faithful  hoe ; 
The  faithful  hoe,  a  double  task  that  takes, 
To  till  the  summer  corn  and  roast  the  winter  cakes. 

Slow  springs  the  blade,  while  check'd  by  chilling 
Ere  yet  the  sun  the  seat  of  Cancer  gains ;        grains, 
But  when  his  fiercest  fires  emblaze  the  land, 
Then  start  the  juices,  then  the  roots  expand ; 
Then,  like  a  column  of  Corinthian  mould, 
The  stalk  struts  upward  and  the  leaves  unfold ; 
The  busy  branches  all  the  ridges  fill, 
Entwine  their  arms  and  kiss  from  hill  to  hill. 
Here  cease  to  vex  them,  all  your  cares  are  done : 
Leave  the  last  labours  to  the  parent  sun ; 
Beneath  his  genial  smiles,  the  well-dress'd  field, 
When  autumn  calls,  a  plenteous  crop  shall  yield. 

Now  the  strong  foliage  bears  the  standards  high. 
And  shoots  the  tall  top-gallants  to  the  sky ; 
The  suckling  ears  the  silken  fringes  bend, 
And  pregnant  grown,  their  swelling  coats  distend ; 
The  loaded  stalk,  while  still  the  burden  grows, 
O'erhangs  the  space  that  runs  between  the  rows ; 
High  as  a  hopfield  waves  the  silent  grove, 
A  safe  retreat  for  little  thefts  of  love, 
When  the  pledged  roasting-ears  invite  the  maid 
To  meet  her  swain  beneath  the  iiew-form'd  shade  ; 
His  generous  hand  unloads  the  cumbrous  hill, 
And  the  green  spoils  her  ready  basket  fill ; 
Small  compensation  for  the  twofold  bliss, 
The  promised  wedding,  and  the  present  kiss. 

Slight  depredations  these  ;  but  now  the  moon 
Calls  from  his  hollow  trees  the  sly  raccoon ; 
And  while  by  night  he  bears  his  prize  away, 
The  bolder  squirrel  labours  through  the  day. 
Both  thieves  alike,  but  provident  of  time, 
A  virtue  rare,  that  almost  hides  their  crime. 
Then  let  them  steal  the  little  stores  they  can, 
And  fill  their  gran'ries  from  the  toils  of  man ; 


JOEL    BARLOW.  27 

We've  one  advantage  where  they  take  no  part— 
With  all  their  wiles,  they  ne'er  have  found  the  art 
To  boil  the  Hasty  Pudding;  here  we  shine 
Superior  far  to  tenants  of  the  pine ; 
This  envied  boon  to  man  shall  still  belong, 
Unshared  by  them  in  substance  or  in  song. 

At  last  the  closing  season  browns  the  plain, 
And  ripe  October  gathers  in  the  grain ; 
Deep-loaded  carts  the  spacious  cornhouse  fill, 
The  sack  distended  marches  to  the  mill ; 
The  lab'ring  mill  beneath  the  burden  groans, 
And  showers  the  future  pudding  from  the  stones  ; 
Till  the  glad  housewife  greets  the  powder'd  gold, 
And  the  new  crop  exterminates  the  old. 


CANTO   111. 


The  days  grow  short ;  but  though  the  falling  sun 
To  the  glad  swain  proclaims  his  day's  work  done, 
Night's  pleasing  shades  his  various  tasks  prolong, 
And  yield  new  subject  to  my  various  song. 
For  now,  the  cornhouse  fill'd,  the  harvest  home, 
The  invited  neighbours  to  the  husking  come  ; 
A  frolic  scene,  where  work,  and  mirth,  and  play, 
Unite  their  charms  to  chase  the  hours  away. 

Where  the  huge  heap  lies  centred  in  the  hall, 
The  lamp  suspended  from  the  cheerful  wall, 
Brown,  corn-fed  nymphs,  and  strong,  hard-handed 
Alternate  ranged,  extend  in  circling  rows,      [beaus, 
Assume  their  seats,  the  solid  mass  attack ; 
The  dry  husks  rustle,  and  the  corncobs  crack ; 
The  song,  the  laugh,  alternate  notes  resound, 
And  the  sweet  cider  trips  in  silence  round. 

The  laws  of  husking  every  wight  can  tell, 
And  sure  no  laws  he  ever  keeps  so  well : 
For  each  red  ear  a  general  kiss  he  gains, 
With  each  smut  ear  he  smuts  the  luckless  swains ; 
But  when  to  some  sweet  maid  a  prize  is  cast, 
Red  as  her  lips  and  taper  as  her  waist, 


28  JOEL    BARLOW. 

She  walks  the  round  and  culls  one  favoured  beau, 
Who  leaps  the  luscious  tribute  to  bestow. 
Various  the  sport,  as  are  the  wits  and  brains 
Of  well-pleased  lasses  and  contending  swains  ; 
Till  the  vast  mound  of  corn  is  swept  away, 
And  he  that  gets  the  last  ear  wins  the  day. 

Meanwhile  the  housewife  urges  all  her  care, 
The  well-earn'd  feast  to  hasten  and  prepare. 
The  sifted  meal  already  waits  her  hand, 
The  milk  is  strain'd,  the  bowls  in  order  stand, 
The  fire  flames  high  ;  and  as  a  pool  (that  takes 
The  headlong  stream  that  o'er  the  milldam  breaks) 
Foams,  roars,  and  rages  with  incessant  toils, 
So  the  vex'd  caldron  rages,  roars,  and  boils. 

First  with  clean  salt  she  seasons  well  the  food, 
Then  strews  the  flour,  and  thickens  all  the  flood. 
Long  o'er  the  simmering  fire  she  lets  it  stand  ; 
To  stir  it  well  demands  a  stronger  hand  ; 
The  husband  takes  his  turn  :  and  round  and  round 
The  ladle  flies  ;  at  last  the  toil  is  crown'd  ; 
When  to  the  board  the  thronging  huskers  pour, 
And  take  their  seats  as  at  the  corn  before. 

I  leave  them  to  their  feast.     There  still  belong 
More  copious  matters  to  my  faithful  song. 
For  rules  there  are,  though  ne'er  unfolded  yet, 
Nice  rules  and  wise,  how  pudding  should  be  at,e. 

Some  with  molasses  line  the  luscious  treat, 
And  mix,  like  bards,  the  useful  with  the  sweet. 
A  wholesome  dish  .and  well  deserving  praise, 
A  great  resource  in  those  bleak  wintry  days, 
When  the  chill'd  earth  lies  buried  deep  in  snow, 
And  raging  Boreas  dries  the  shivering  cow. 

Bless'd  cow!  thy  praise  shall  still  my  notes  em- 


Great  source  of  health,  the  only  source  of  joy  ; 
Mother  of  Egypt's  god  —  but  sure,  for  me, 
Were  I  to  leave  my  God,  I'd  worship  thee. 
How  oft  thy  teats  these  precious  hands  have  press'd! 
How  oft  thy  bounties  prove  my  only  feast  ! 


JOEL  BARLOW.  29 

How  oft  I've  fed  thee  with  my  favourite  grain ! 
And  roar'd,  like  thee,  to  find  thy  children  slain ! 

Yes,  swains  who  know  her  various  worth  to  prize, 
Ah !  house  her  well  from  winter's  angry  skies. 
Potatoes,  pumpkins,  should  her  sadness  cheer, 
Corn  from  your  crib,  and  mashes  from  your  beer ; 
When  spring  returns,  she'll  well  acquit  the  loan, 
And  nurse  at  once  your  infants  and  her  own. 

Milk  then  with  pudding  I  would  always  choose ; 
To  this  in  future  I  confine  my  muse, 
Till  she  in  haste  some  farther  hints  unfold, 
Well  for  the  young,  nor  useless  to  the  old. 
First  in  your  bowl  the  milk  abundant  take, 
Then  drop  with  care  along  the  silver  lake 
Your  flakes  of  pudding ;  these  at  first  will  hide 
Their  little  bulk  beneath  the  swelling  tide  ; 
But  when  their  growing  mass  no  more  can  sink, 
When  the  soft  island  looms  above  the  brink, 
Then  check  your  hand ;  you've  got  the  portion  due, 
So  taught  our  sires,  and  what  they  taught  is  true. 

There  is  a  choice  in  spoons.     Though  small  ap 
pear 

The  nice  distinction,  yet  to  me  'tis  clear. 
The  deep-bowl'd  Gallic  spoon,  contrived  to  scoop 
In  ample  draughts  the  thin  diluted  soup, 
Performs  not  well  in  those  substantial  things, 
Whose  mass  adhesive  to  the  metal  clings  ; 
Where  the  strong  labial  muscles  must  embrace 
The  gentle  curve,  and  sweep  the  hollow  space. 
With  ease  to  enter  and  discharge  the  freight, 
A  bowl  less  concave  but  still  more  dilate, 
Becomes  the  pudding  best.     The  shape,  the  size, 
A  secret  rests,  unknown  to  vulgar  eyes. 
Experienced  feeders  can  alone  impart 
A  rule  so  much  above  the  lore  of  art. 
These  tuneful  lips,  that  thousand  spoons  have  tried,. 
With  just  precision  could  the  point  decide, 
Though  not  in  song ;  the  muse  but  poorly  shines 
In  cones,  and  cubes,  and  geometric  lines  ; 
C2 


30  ROBERT    C.    SANDS. 

Yet  the  true  form,  as  near  as  she  can  tell, 
Is  tha.t  small  section  of  a  goose  egg  shell, 
Which  in  two  equal  portions  shall  divide 
The  distance  from  the  centre  to  the  side. 
Fear  not  to  slayer ;  'tis  no  deadly  sin  : 
Like  the  free  Frenchman,  from  your  joyous  chin 
Suspend  the  ready  napkin ;  or,  like  me, 
Poise  with  one  hand  your  bowl  upon  your  knee ; 
Just  in  the  zenith  your  wise  head  project, 
Your  full  spoon,  rising  in  a  line  direct, 
Bold  as  a  bucket,  heeds  no  drops  that  fall, 
The  wide-mouth'd  bowl  will  surely  catch  them  all ! 


ROBERT  C.  SANDS. 

SLEEP    OP    PAPANTZIN. 

'TWAS  then,  one  eve,  when  o'er  the  imperial  lake 
And  all  its  cities,  glittering  in  their  pomp, 
The  lord  of  glory  threw  his  parting  smiles, 
In  Tlatelolco's  palace,  in  her  bower, 
Papantzin  lay  reclined ;  sister  of  him 
At  whose  name  monarchs  trembled.     Yielding  there 
To  musings  various,  o'er  her  senses  crept 
Or  sleep  or  kindred  death. 

It  seemed  she  stood 
In  an  illimitable  plain,  that  stretched 
Its  desert  continuity  around, 
Upon  the  o'erwearied  sight ;  in  contrast  strange 
With  that  rich  vale,  where  only  she  had  dwelt, 
Whose  everlasting  mountains,  girdling  it, 
As  in  a  chalice  held  a  kingdom's  wealth ; 
Their  summits  freezing,  where  the  eagle  tired, 
But  found  no  resting-place.     Papantzin  looked 
On  endless  barrenness,  and  walked  perplexed 
Through  the  dull  haze,  along  the  boundless  heath, 


ROBERT    C.    SANDS.  31 

Like  some  lone  ghost  in  Mictlan's  cheerless  gloom 
Debarred  from  light  and  glory. 

Wandering  thus, 

She  came  where  a  great  sullen  river  poured 
Its  turbid  waters  with  a  rushing  sound 
Of  painful  moans ;  as  if  the  inky  waves 
Were  hastening  still  on  their  complaining  course 
To  escape  the  horrid  solitudes.     Beyond 
What  seemed  a  highway  ran,  with  branching  paths 
Innumerous.     This  to  gain,  she  sought  to  plunge 
Straight  in  the  troubled  stream.     For  well  she  knew 
To  shun  with  agile  limbs  the  current's  force, 
Nor  feared  the  noise  of  waters.     She  had  played 
From  infancy  in  her  fair  native  lake, 
Amid  the  gay  plumed  creatures  floating  round, 
Wheeling  or  diving,  with  their  changeful  hues, 
As  fearless  and  as  innocent  as  they. 

A  vision  stayed  her  purpose.    By  her  side 
Stood  a  bright  youth ;  and  startling,  as  she  gazed 
On  his  effulgence,  every  sense  was  bound . 
In  pleasing  awe  and  in  fond  reverence. 
For  not  Tezcatlipoca,  as  he  shone 
Upon  her  priest-led  fancy,  when  from  heaven 
By  filmy  thread  sustained  he  came  to  earth, 
In  his  resplendent  mail  reflecting  all 
Its  images,  with  dazzling  portraiture, 
Was,  in  his  radiance  and  immortal  youth, 
A  peer  to  this  new  god.     His  stature  was 
Like  that  of  men ;  but  matched  with  his,  the  port 
Of  kings  all  dreaded  was  the  crouching  mien 
Of  suppliants  at  their  feet.     Serene  the  light 
That  floated  round  him,  as  the  lineaments 
It  cased  with  its  mild  glory.     Gravely  sweet 
The  impression  of  his  features,  which  to  scan 
Their  lofty  loveliness  forbade  :  his  eyes 
She  felt,  but  saw  not :  only,  on  his  brow — 
From  over  which,  encircled  by  what  seemed 


32  ROBERT    C.    SANDS. 

A  ring  of  liquid  diamond,  in  pure  light 
Revolving  ever,  backward  flowed  his  locks 
In  buoyant,  waving  clusters — on  his  brow 
She  marked  a  CROSS  described  ;  and  lowly  bent, 
She  knew  not  wherefore,  to  the  sacred  sign. 
From  either  shoulder  mantled  o'er  his  front 
Wings  dropping  feathery  silver ;  and  his  robe 
Snow-white  in  the  still  air  was  motionless, 
As  that  of  chiselled  god,  or  the  pale  shroud 
Of  some  fear-conjured  ghost. 

Her  hand  he  took, 

And  led  her  passive  o'er  the  naked  banks 
Of  that  black  stream,  still  murmuring  angrily. 
But,  as  he  spoke,  she  heard  its  moans  no  more ; 
His  voice  seemed  sweeter  than  the  hymnings  raised 
By  brave  and  gentle  souls  in  Paradise, 
To  celebrate  the  outgoing  of  the  sun 
On  his  majestic  progress  over  heaven. 
"  Stay,  princess,"  thus  he  spoke, "  thou  mayst  not  yet 
O'erpass  these  waters.    Though  thou  knowest  it  not, 
Nor  Him,  God  loves  thee."     So  he  led  her  on, 
Unfainting,  amid  hideous  sights  and  sounds  ; 
For  now,  o'er  scattered  sculls  and  grisly  bones 
They  walked ;  while  underneath,  before,  behind, 
Rise  dolorous  wails  and  groans  protracted  long, 
Sobs  of  deep  anguish,  screams  of  agony, 
And  melancholy  sighs,  and  the  fierce  yell 
Of  hopeless  and  intolerable  pain. 

Shuddering,  as,  in  the  gloomy  whirlwind's  pause, 
Through  the  malign,  distempered  atmosphere, 
The  second  circle's  purple  blackness,  passed 
The  pitying  Florentine,  who  saw  the  shades 
Of  poor  Francesca  and  her  paramour ; 
The  princess  o'er  the  ghastly  relics  stepped, 
Listening  the  frightful  clamour ;  till  a  gleam, 
Whose  sickly  and  phosphoric  lustre  seemed 
Kindled  from  these  decaying  bones,  lit  up 


ROBERT   C,    SANDS.  33 

The  sable  river.    Then  a  pageant  came 
Over  its  obscure  tides,  of  stately  barks, 
Gigantic,  with  their  prows  of  quaint  device, 
Tall  masts,  and  ghostly  canvass,  huge  and  high, 
Hung  in  the  unnatural  light  and  lifeless  air. 
Grim  bearded  men,  with  stern  and  angry  looks, 
Strange  robes,  and  uncouth  armour,  stood  behind 
Their  galleries  and  bulwarks.     One  ship  bore 
A  broad  sheet  pendant,  where,  inwrought  with  gold, 
She  marked  the  symbol  that  adorned  the  brow 
Of  her  mysterious  guide.    Down  the  dark  stream 
Swept  on  the  spectral  fleet,  in  the  false  light 
Flickering  and  fading.     Louder  then  uprose 
The  roar  of  voices  from  the  accursed  strand. 


WAKING   OF    PAPANTZIN   IN    THE   SEPULCHRE. 

She  woke  in  darkness  and  in  solitude. 
Slow  passed  her  lethargy  away,  and  long 
To  her  half-dreaming  eye  that  brilliant  sign 
Distinct  appeared.    Then  damp  and  close  she  felt 
The  air  around,  and  knew  the  poignant  smell 
Of  spicy  herbs  collected  and  confined. 
As  those  awakening  from  some  troubled  trance 
Are  wont,  she  would  have  learned  by  touch  if  yet 
The  spirit  to  the  body  was  allied. 
Strange  hindrances  prevented.     O'er  her  face 
A  mask  thick-plated  lay — and  round  her  swathed 
Was  many  a  costly  and  encumbering  robe, 
Such  as  she  wore  on  some  high  festival, 
O'erspread  with  precious  gems,  rayless  and  cold, 
That  now  pressed  hard  and  sharp  against  her  touch. 
The  cumbrous  collar  round  her  slender  neck, 
Of  gold  thick  studded  with  each  valued  stone 
Earth  and  the  sea-depths  yield  for  human  pride— 
The  bracelets  and  the  many-twisted  rings 
That  girt  her  taper  limbs,  coil  upon  coil — 
What  were  they  in  this  dungeon's  solitude  ? 


34  ROBERT    C.    SANDS. 

The  plumy  coronal  that  would  have  sprung 

Light  from  her  fillet  in  the  purer  air, 

Waving  in  mockery  of  the  rainbow  tints, 

Now  drooping  low,  and  steeped  in  clogging  dews, 

Oppressive  hung.     Groping  in  dubious  search, 

She  found  the  household  goods,  the  spindle,  broom* 

Gicalli  quaintly  sculptured,  and  the  jar 

That  held  the  useless  beverage  for  the  dead. 

By  these,  and  by  the  jewel  to  her  lip 

Attached,  the  emerald  symbol  of  the  soul, 

In  its  green  life  immortal,  soon  she  knew 

Her  dwelling  was  a  sepulchre. 

She  loosed 

The  mask,  and  from  her  feathery  bier  uprose, 
Casting  away  the  robe,  which  like  long  alb 
Wrapped  her ;  and  with  it  many  an  aloe  leaf, 
Inscribed  with  Azteck  characters  and  signs, 
To  guide  the  spirit  where  the  serpent  hissed, 
Hills  towered,  and  deserts  spread,  and  keen  winds- 

blew, 
And  many  a  "  flower  of  death ;"  though  their  frail 

leaves 

Were  yet  unwithered.    For  the  living  warmth 
Which  in  her  dwelt,  their  freshness  had  preserved ; 
Else,  if  corruption  had  begun  its  work, 
The  emblems  of  quick  change  would  have  survived 
Her  beauty's  semblance.    What  is  beauty  worth, 
If  the  cropp'd  flower  retains  its  tender  bloom 
When  foul  decay  has  stolen  the  latest  lines 
Of  loveliness  in  death  *    Yet  even  now 
Papantzin  knew  that  her  exuberant  locks— 
Which,  unconfined,  had  round  her  flowed  to  earth, 
Like  a  stream  rushing  down  some  rocky  steep, 
Threaded  ten  thousand  channels — had  been  shorn 
Of  half  their  waving  length,  and  liked  it  not. 

But  through  a  crevice  soon  she  marked  a  gleam 
Of  rays  uncertain ;  and,  with  staggering  steps, 
But  strong  in  reckless  dreaminess,  while  still 


ROBERT    C.   SANDS.  35 

Presided  o'er  the  chaos  of  her  thoughts 

The  revelation  that  upon  her  soul 

Dwelt  with  its  power,  she  gained  the  cavern's  throat, 

And  pushed  the  quarried  stone  aside,  and  stood 

In  the  free  air,  and  in  her  own  domain. 

But  now  obscurely  o'er  her  vision  swam 
The  beauteous  landscape,  with  its  thousand  tints 
And  changeful  views ;  long  alleys  of  bright  trees 
Bending  beneath  their  fruits ;  espaliers  gay 
With  tropic  flowers  and  shrubs  that  filled  the  breeze 
With  odorous  incense,  basins  vast,  where  birds 
With  shining  plumage  sported,  smooth  canals 
Leading  the  glassy  wave,  or  towering  grove 
Of  forest  veterans.     On  a  rising  bank, 
Her  seat  accustomed,  near  a  well  hewn  out 
From  ancient  rocks  into  which  waters  gushed 
From  living  springs,  where  she  was  wont  to  bathe, 
She  threw  herself  to  muse.     Dim  on  her  sight 
The  imperial  city  and  its  causeways  rose, 
With  the  broad  lake  and  all  its  floating  isles 
And  glancing  shallops,  and  the  gilded  pomp 
Of  princely  barges,  canopied  with  plumes 
Spread  fanlike,  or  with  tufted  pageantry 
Waving  magnificent.     Unmarked  around 
The  frequent  huitzilin,  with  murmuring  hum 
Of  ever-restless  wing,  and  shrill  sweet  note, 
Shot  twinkling,  with  the  ruby  star  that  glowed 
Over  his  tiny  bosom,  and  all  hues 
That  loveliest  seem  in  heaven,  with  ceaseless  change,- 
Flashing  from  his  fine  films.     And  all  in  vain 
Untiring,  from  the  rustling  branches  near, 
Poured  the  Centzontli  all  his  hundred  strains 
Of  imitative  melody.    Not  now 
She  heeded  them.     Yet  pleasant  was  the  shade 
Of  palms  and  cedars  ;  and  through  twining  boughs 
And  fluttering  leaves,  the  subtle  god  of  air,     [crept, 
The  serpent  armed  with  plumes,  most  welcome 
And  fanned  her  cheek  with  kindest  ministry. 


36  ROBERT    C.    SANDS. 

A  dull  and  dismal  sound  came  booming  on ; 
A  solemn,  wild,  and  melancholy  noise, 
Shaking  the  tranquil  air ;  and  afterward 
A  clash  and  jangling,  barbarously  prolonged, 
Torturing  the  unwilling  ear,  rang  dissonant. 
Again  the  unnatural  thunder  rolled  along, 
Again  the  crash  and  clamour  followed  it. 
Shuddering  she  heard,  who  knew  that  every  peal 
From  the  dread  gong,  announced  a  victim's  heart 
Torn  from  his  breast,  and  each  triumphant  clang. 
A  mangled  corse  down  the  great  temple's  stairs 
Hurled  headlong ;  and  she  knew,  as  lately  taught, 
How  vengeance  was  ordained  for  cruelty ; 
How  pride  would  end ;  and  uncouth  soldiers  tread 
Through  bloody  furrows  o'er  her  pleasant  groves 
And  gardens  ;  and  would  make  themselves  a  road 
Over  the  dead,  choking  the  silver  lake, 
And  cast  the  battered  idols  down  the  steps 
That  climbed  their  execrable  towers,  and  raze 
Sheer  from  the  ground  Ahuitzol's  mighty  pile. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

Goon-night  to  all  the  world !  there's  none, 
Beneath  the  "  over-going"  sun, 
To  whom  I  feel,  or  hate,  or  spite, ' 
And  so  to  all  a  fair  good-night. 

Would  I  could  say  good-night  to  pain, 
Good-night  to  conscience  and  her  train, 
*!TO  cheerless  poverty,  and  shame 
That  I  am  yet  unknown  to  fame  ! 

Would  I  could  say  good-night  to  dreams 
That  haunt  me  with  delusive  gleams, 
That  through  the  sable  future's  veil 
Like  meteors  glimmer,  but  to  fail. 


ROBERT   C.  SANDS.  37 

Would  I  could  say  a  long  good-night 
To  halting  between  wrong  and  right, 
And,  like  a  giant  with  new  force, 
Awake  prepared  to  run  my  course ! 

But  time  o'er  good  and  ill  sweeps  on, 
And  when  few  years  have  come  and  gone, 
The  past  will  be  to  me  as  naught, 
Whether  remembered  or  forgot. 

Yet  let  me  hope  one  faithful  friend 
O'er  my  last  couch  in  tears  shall  bend ; 
And,  though  no  day  for  me  was  bright, 
Shall  bid  me  then  a  long  good-night. 


THE  DEAD  OF    1832. 

OH  Time  and  Death  !  with  certain  pace, 
Though  still  unequal,  hurrying  on, 

O'erturning  in  your  awful  race, 
The  cot,  the  palace,  and  the  throne ! 

Not  always  in  the  storm  of  war, 
Nor  by  the  pestilence  that  sweeps 

From  the  plague-smitten  realms  afar, 
Beyond  the  old  and  solemn  deeps : 

In  crowds  the  good  and  mighty  go, 
And  to  those  vast  dim  chambers  hie : 

Where,  mingled  with  the  high  and  low, 
Dead  Caesars  and  dead  Shakspeares  lie ! 

Dread  ministers  of  God !  sometimes 
Ye  smite  at  once  to  do  his  will, 

In  all  earth's  ocean-severed  climes, 
Those— whose  renown  ye  cannot  kill ! 
D 


38  ROBERT    C.  SANDS. 

When  all  the  brightest  stars  that  burn 
At  once  are  banished  from  their  spheres, 

Men  sadly  ask,  when  shall  return 
Such  lustre  to  the  coming  years  1 

For  where  is  he* — who  lived  so  long — 
Who  raised  the  modern  Titan's  ghost, 

And  showed  his  fate  in  powerful  song, 
Whose  soul  for  learning's  sake  was  lost  ? 

Where  he — who  backward  to  the  birth 
Of  Time  itself,  adventurous  trod, 

And  in  the  mingled  mass  of  earth 
Found  out  the  handiwork  of  God  If 

Where  he — who  in  the  mortal  head,J 
Ordained  to  gaze  on  heaven,  could  trace 

The  soul's  vast  features,  that  shall  tread 
The  stars,  when  earth  is  nothingness  ? 

Where  he — who  struck  old  Albyn's,lyre,§ 
Till  round  the  world  its  echoes  roll, 

And  swept,  with  all  a  prophet's  fire, 
The  diapason  of  the  soul  1 

Where  he — who  read  the  mystic  lore.|| 
Buried,  where  buried  Pharaohs  sleep ; 

And  dared  presumptuous  to  explore 

Secrets  four  thousand  years  could  keep  * 

Where  he — who,  with  a  poet's  eye^j 

Of  truth,  on  lowly  nature  gazed, 
And  made  even  sordid  Poverty 

Classic,  when  in  HIS  numbers  glazed  ? 

Where — that  old  sage  so  hale  and  staid,** 
The  "  greatest  good"  who  sought  to  find , 

Who  in  his  garden  mused,  and  made 
All  forms  of  rule  for  all  mankind  1 

*  Goethe  and  his  Faust.      t  Cuvier.     %  Spurzheim. 

$  Scott.    II  Champollion.    %  Crabbe.    **  Jeremy  Bentham. 


JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE. 

And  thou — whom  millions  far  removed* 
Revered — the  hierarch  meek  and  wise, 

Thy  ashes  sleep,  adored,  beloved, 
Near  where  thy  Wesley's  coffin  lies. 

He  too — the  heir  of  glory — wheref 
Hath  great  Napoleon's  scion  fled  ? 

Ah !  glory  goes  not  to  an  heir ! 
Take  him,  ye  noble,  vulgar  dead ! 

But  hark !  a  nation  sighs !  for  he,J 
Last  of  the  brave  who  perilled  all 

To  make  an  infant  empire  free, 
Obeys  the  inevitable  call ! 

They  go — and  with  them  is  a  crowd, 
For  human  rights  who  THOUGHT  and  DID, 

We  rear  to  them  no  temples  proud, 
Each  hath  his  mental  pyramid. 

All  earth  is  now  their  sepulchre, 
The  MIND,  their  monument  sublime — 

Young  in  eternal  fame  they  are — 
Such  are  YOUR  triumphs,  Death  and  Time. 


JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE. 

DESCENT   OF   THE   JUDGE   AND  HIS   ANGELS. 

METHOUGHT  I  journeyed  o'er  a  boundless  plain 
Unbroke  by  hill  or  vale,  on  all  sides  stretched, 
Like  circling  ocean  to  the  low-browed  sky ; 
Save  in  the  midst  a  verdant  mount,  whose  sides 
Flowers  of  all  hues  and  fragrant  breath  adorned 
Lightly  I  trod,  as  on  some  joyous  quest, 

*  Adam  Clarke.  f  The  Duke  of  Reichstadt. 

$  Charles  Carroll. 


40  JAMES   A.    HILLHOUSE. 

Beneath  the  azure  vault  and  early  sun ; 

But  while  my  pleased  eyes  ranged  the  circuit  green, 

New  light  shone  round ;  a  murmur  came  confused, 

Like  many  voices  and  the  rush  of  wings. 

Upward  I  gazed,  and  mid  the  glittering  skies, 

Begirt  by  flying  myriads,  saw  a  throne, 

Whose  thousand  splendours  blazed  upon  the  earth, 

Refulgent  as  another  sun.     Through  clouds 

They  came,  and  vapours  coloured  by  Aurora, 

Mingling  in  swell  sublime,  voices  and  harps, 

And  sounding  wings  and  hallelujahs  sweet. 

Sudden  a  Seraph,  that  before  them  flew, 

Pausing  upon  his  wide-unfolded  plumes, 

Put  to  his  mouth  the  likeness  of  a  trump, 

And  towards  the  four  winds  four  times  fiercely 

breathed. 

Doubling  along  the  arch,  the  mighty  peal 
To  Heaven  resounded,  Hell  returned  a  groan, 
And  shuddering  Earth  a  moment  reeled,  confounded, 
From  her  fixed  pathway,  as  the  staggering  ship, 
Stunned  by  some  mountain  billow,  reels.    The  isles, 
With  heaving  ocean,  rocked :  the  mountains  shook 
Their  ancient  coronets  :  the  avalanche 
Thundered :  silence  succeeded  through  the  nations. 
Earth  never  listened  to  a  sound  like  this. 
It  struck  the  general  pulse  of  nature  still, 
And  broke  for  ever  the  dull  sleep  of  death. 

Now  o'er  the  mount  the  radiant  legions  hung, 
Like  plumy  travellers  from  climes  remote 
On  some  sequestered  isle  about  to  stoop. 
Gently  its  flowery  head  received  the  throne ; 
Cherubs  and  Seraphs,  by  ten  thousands,  round 
Skirted  it  far  and  wide,  like  a  bright  sea; 
Fair  forms  and  faces,  crowns,  and  coronets, 
And  glistering  wings  furled  white  and  numberless. 
About  their  Lord  were  those  Seven  glorious  Spirits 
Who  in  the  Almighty's  presence  stand.     Four  leaned 
On  golden  wands,  with  folded  wings,  and  eyes 
Fixed  on  the  throne  :  one  bore  the  dreadful  Books, 


JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE.  41 

The  arbiters  of  life  :  another  waved 

The  blazing  ensign  terrible,  of  yore, 

To  rebel  angels  in  the  wars  of  Heaven : 

What  seemed  a  trump  the  other  Spirit  grasped, 

Of  wondrous  size,  wreathed  multiform  and  strange. 

Illustrious  stood  the  Seven,  above  the  rest 

Towering,  and  like  a  constellation  glowing, 

What  time  the  sphere-instructed  huntsman,  taught 

By  Atlas,  his  star-studded  belt  displays 

Aloft,  bright-glittering,  in  the  winter  sky. 


ADAM,   CAESAR,   AND   ABRAHAM   AT  THE   RESURRECTION. 

NEAREST  the  mount,  of  that  mixed  phalanx  first, 

Our  general  Parent  stood ;  not  as  he  looked 

Wandering  at  eve  amid  the  shady  bowers 

And  odorous  groves  of  that  delicious  garden, 

Or  flowery  banks  of  some  soft  rolling  stream, 

Pausing  to  list  its  lulling  murmur,  hand 

In  hand  with  peerless  Eve,  the  rose  too  sweet, 

Fatal  to  Paradise.     Fled  from  his  cheek 

The  bloom  of  Eden ;  his  hyacinthine  locks 

Were  turned  to  gray ;  with  years  and  sorrows  bowed 

He  seemed,  but  through  his  ruined  form  still  shone 

The  majesty  of  his  Creator :  round 

Upon  his  sons  a  grieved  and  pitying  look 

He  cast,  and  in  his  vesture  hid  his  face. 

Close  at  his  side  appeared  a  martial  form 
Of  port  majestic,  clad  in  massive  arms, 
Cowering  above  whose  helm,  with  outspread  wings, 
The  Roman  eagle  flew ;  around  its  brim 
Was  charactered  the  name  at  which  Earth's  Queen 
Bowed  from  her  sevenfold  throne  and  owned  her  lord. 
In  his  dilated  eye  amazement  stood ; 
Terror,  surprise,  and  blank  astonishment 
Blanched  his   firm  cheek,  as  when  of  old,  close 

hemmed 

Within  the  Capitol,  amid  the  crowd 
D2 


42  JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE. 

Of  traitors,  fearless  else,  he  caught  the  gleam 
Of  Brutus'  steel.     Daunted,  yet  on  the  pomp 
Of  towering  seraphim,  their  wings,  their  crowns, 
Their  dazzling  faces,  and  upon  the  Lord, 
He  fixed  a  steadfast  look  of  anxious  note, 
Like  that  Pharsalia's  hurtling  squadrons  drew 
When  all  his  fortunes  hung  upon  the  hour. 

Near  him,  for  wisdom  famous  through  the  East, 
Abraham  rested  on  his  staff;  in  guise 
A  Chaldee  shepherd,  simple  in  his  raiment 
As  when  at  Mamre  in  his  tent  he  sat, 
The  host  of  angels.     Snow-white  were  his  locks 
And  silvery  beard  that  to  his  girdle  rolled. 
Fondly  his  meek  eye  dwelt  upon  his  Lord, 
Like  one  that,  after  long  and  troubled  dreams, 
A  night  of  sorrows,  dreary,  wild,  and  sad, 
Beholds,  at  last,  the  dawn  of  promised  joys. 


LAST   SETTING   OF  THE    SUN. 


By  this  the  sun  his  westering  car  drove  low  ; 
Round  his  broad  wheels  full  many  a  lucid  cloud 
Floated,  like  happy  isles  in  seas  of  gold : 
Along  the  horizon  castled  shapes  were  piled, 
Turrets  and  towers,  whose  fronts  embattled  gleamed 
With  yellow  light :  smit  by  the  slanting  ray, 
A  ruddy  beam  the  canopy  reflected  ; 
With  deeper  light  the  ruby  blushed  ;  and  thick 
Upon  the  Seraphs'  wings  the  glowing  spots 
Seemed  drops  of  fire.     Uncoiling  from  its  staff, 
With  fainter  wave,  the  gorgeous  ensign  hung, 
Or,  swelling  with  the  swelling  breeze,  by  fits 
Cast  off',  upon  the  dewy  air,  huge  flakes 
Of  golden  lustre.     Over  all  the  hill, 
The  heavenly  legions,  the  assembled  world, 
Evening  her  crimson  tint  for  ever  drew. 

But  while  at  gaze,  in  solemn  silence,  men 
And  angels  stood,  and  many  a  quaking  heart 


JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE.  43 

With  expectation  throbbed ;  about  the  throne 

And  glittering  hill-top  slowly  wreathed  the  clouds, 

Erewhile  like  curtains  for  adornment  hung, 

Involving  Shiloh  and  the  Seraphim 

Beneath  a  snowy  tent.     The  bands  around 

Eying  the  gonfalon  that  through  the  smoke 

Tower'd  into  air,  resembled  hosts  who  watch 

The  king's  pavilion  where,  ere  battle  hour, 

A  council  sits.     What  their  consult  might  be, 

Those  seven  dread  Spirits  and  their  Lord,  I  mused, 

I  marvelled.     Was  it  grace  and  peace  1  or  death  ? 

Was  it  of  man  1    Did  pity  for  the  Lost 

His  gentle  nature  wring,  who  knew,  who  felt 

How  frail  is  this  poor  tenement  of  clay  1 

Arose  there  from  the  misty  tabernacle 

A  cry  like  that  upon  Gethsemane  1 

What  passed  in  Jesus'  bosom  none  may  know, 

But  close  the  cloudy  dome  invested  him ; 

And,  weary  with  conjecture,  round  I  gazed 

Where  in  the  purple  west,  no  more  to  dawn, 

Faded  the  glories  of  the  dying  day. 

Mild-twinkling  through  a  crimson-skirted  cloud 

The  solitary  star  of  evening  shone. 

While  gazing  wistful  on  that  peerless  light 

Thereafter  to  be  seen  no  more  (as  oft 

In  dreams  strange  images  will  mix),  sad  thoughts 

Passed  o'er  my  soul.     Sorrowing  I  cried, "  Farewell, 

Pale,  beauteous  planet,  that  displayest  so  soft, 

Amid  yon  glowing  streak,  thy  transient  beam, 

A  long,  a  last  farewell !     Seasons  have  changed, 

Ages  and  empires  rolled,  like  smoke,  away, 

But  thou,  unaltered,  beam'st  as  silver  fair 

As  on  thy  birthnight !     Bright  and  watchful  eyes, 

From  palaces  and  bowers,  have  hailed  thy  gem 

With  secret  transport !     Natal  star  of  love, 

And  souls  that  love  the  shadowy  hour  of  fancy, 

How  much  I  owe  thee,  how  I  bless  thy  ray ! 

How  oft  thy  rising  o'er  the  hamlet  green, 

Signal  of  rest,  and  social  converse  sweet, 


44  JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree,  has  cheered 
The  peasant's  heart,  and  drawn  his  benison ! 
Pride  of  the  West !  beneath  thy  placid  light 
The  tender  tale  shall  never  more  be  told, 
Man's  soul  shall  never  wake  to  joy  again : 
Thou  set'st  for  ever— lovely  orb,  farewell !" 


SCENE   FROM   HADAD. 

The  terraced  roof  of  ABSALOM'S  house  by  night;  adorned 
with  vases  of  flowers  and  fragrant  shrubs ;  an  aw 
ning  over  part  of  it.  TAMAR  and  HADAD. 

Tarn.  No,  no,  I  well  remember— proofs,  you  said, 
Unknown  to  Moses. 

Had.  Well,  my  love,  thou  know'st 
I've  been  a  traveller  in  various  climes ; 
Trod  Ethiopia's  scorching  sands,  and  scaled 
The  snow-clad  mountains  ;  trusted  to  the  deep ; 
Traversed  the  fragrant  islands  of  the  sea, 
And  with  the  wise  conversed  of  many  nations. 

Tarn.  I  know  thou  hast. 

Had.  Of  all  mine  eyes  have  seen, 
The  greatest,  wisest,  and  most  wonderful 
Is  that  dread  sage,  the  Ancient  of  the  Mountain. 

Tarn.   Who? 

Had.  None  knows  his  lineage,  age,  or  name :  his 
Are  like  the  snows  of  Caucasus ;  his  eyes      [locks 
Beam  with  the  wisdom  of  collected  ages. 
In  green  unbroken  years  he  sees,  'tis  said, 
The  generations  pass,  like  autumn  fruits, 
Garner'd,  consumed,  and  springing  fresh  to  life, 
Again  to  perish,  while  he  views  the  sun, 
The  seasons  roll,  in  rapt  serenity, 
And  high  communion  with  celestial  powers. 
Some  say  'tis  Shem,  our  father,  some  say  Enoch, 
And  some  Melchizedek. 


JAMES    A.  HILLHOTJSE.  45 

Tarn.  I've  heard  a  tale 
Like  this,  but  ne'er  believed  it. 

Had.  I  have  proved  it. 

Through  perils  dire,  dangers  most  imminent, 
Seven  days  and  nights  mid  rocks  and  wildernesses, 
And  boreal  snows,  and  never-thawing  ice, 
Where  not  a  bird,  a  beast,  a  living  thing, 
Save  the  far-soaring  vulture,  comes,  I  dared 
My  desperate  way,  resolved  to  know  or  perish. 

Tarn.  Rash,  rash  advent'rer ! 

Had.  On  the  highest  peak 
Of  stormy  Caucasus  there  blooms  a  spot 
On  which  perpetual  sunbeams  play,  where  flowers 
And  verdure  never  die  ;  and  there  he  dwells. 

Tarn.  But  didst  thou  see  him? 

Had.  Never  did  I  view 
Such  awful  majesty :  his  reverend  locks 
Hung  like  a  silver  mantle  to  his  feet, 
His  raiment  glistered  saintly  white,  his  brow 
Rose  like  the  gate  of  Paradise,  his  mouth 
Was  musical  as  its  bright  guardians'  songs. 

Tarn.  What  did  he  tell  thee  ?     Oh !  what  wisdom 
From  lips  so  hallowed  ?  [fell 

Had.  Whether  he  possess 
The  Tetragrammaton — the  powerful  name 
Inscribed  on  Moses'  rod,  by  which  he  wrought 
Unheard-of  wonders,  which  constrains  the  heavens 
To  shower  down  blessings,  shakes  the  earth,  and 
The  strongest  spirits ;  or  if  God  hath  given      [rules 
A  delegated  power,  I  cannot  tell. 
But  'twas  from  him  I  learned  their  fate,  their  fall, 
Who  erewhile  wore  resplendent  crowns  in  Heaven ; 
Now  scattered  through  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea. 
Them  he  compels  to  answer,  and  from  them 
Has  drawn  what  Moses,  nor  no  mortal  ear, 
Has  ever  heard. 

Tarn.  But  did  he  tell  it  thee  ? 

Had.  He  told  me  much — more  than  I  dare  reveal ; 
For  with  a  dreadful  oath  he  sealed  my  lips. 


46  JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSE. 

Tarn.  But  canst  thou  tell  me  nothing  ?     Why  un- 
So  much,  if  I  must  hear  no  more  ?  [fold 

Had.  You  bade 

Explain  my  words,  almost  reproached  me,  sweet, 
For  what  by  accident  escaped  me. 

Tarn.  Ah! 

A  little — something  tell  me — sure  not  all 
Were  words  inhibited. 

Had.  Then  promise  never, 
Never  to  utter  of  this  conference 
A  breath  to  mortal. 

Tarn.  Solemnly  I  vow. 

Had.  Even  then,  'tis  little  I  can  say,  compared 
With  all  the  marvels  he  related. 

Tarn.  Come, 
I'm  breathless.     Tell  me  how  they  sinn'd,  how  fell. 

Had.  Their  head,  their  prince  involved  them  in 
his  ruin. 

Tarn.  What  black  offence  on  his  devoted  head 
Drew  endless  punishment  ? 

Had.  The  wish  to  be 
Like  the  All-Perfect. 

Tarn.  Arrogating  that 
Due  only  to  his  Maker !  awful  crime  ! 
But  what  their  doom  ?  their  place  of  punishment  1 

Had.  Above,  about,  beneath ;  earth,  sea,  and  air ; 
Their  habitations  various  as  their  minds, 
Employments,  and  desires. 

Tarn.  But  are  they  round  us,  Hadad?  not  confined 
In  penal  chains  and  darkness  ? 

Had.  So  he  said, 

And  so  your  holy  books  infer.     What  saith 
Your  Prophet  ?  what  the  Prince  of  Uz  ? 

T«w4  I  shudder, 
Lest  some  dark  minister  be  near  us  now. 

Had.  You  wrong  them.     They  are  bright  intel 
ligences, 

Robbed  of  some  native  splendour,  and  cast  down, 
'Tis  true,  from  Heaven ;  but  not  deformed,  and  foul, 


JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE.  47 

Revengeful,  malice-working  fiends,  as  fools 
Suppose.     They  dwell,  like  princes,  in  the  clouds ; 
Sun  their  bright  pinions  in  the  middle  sky ; 
Or  arch  their  palaces  beneath  the  hills, 
With  stones  inestimable  studded  so, 
That  sun  or  stars  were  useless  there. 

Tarn.  Good  heavens ! 

Had.  He  bade  me  look  on  rugged  Caucasus, 
Crag  piled  on  crag  beyond  the  utmost  ken, 
Naked  and  wild,  as  if  creation's  ruins 
Were  heaped  in  one  immeasurable  chain 
Of  barren  mountains,  beaten  by  the  storms 
Of  everlasting  winter.     But  within 
Are  glorious  palaces  and  domes  of  light, 
Irradiate  halls  and  crystal  colonnades, 
Vaults  set  with  gems  the  purchase  of  a  crown, 
Blazing  with  lustre  past  the  noontide  beam, 
Or,  with  a  milder  beauty,  mimicking 
The  mystic  signs  of  changeful  Mazzaroth. 

Tarn.  Unheard-of  splendour ! 

Had.  There  they  dwell,  and  muse, 
And  wander ;  beings  beautiful,  immortal, 
Minds  vast  as  heaven,  capacious  as  the  sky, 
Whose  thoughts  connect  past,  present,  and  to  come, 
And  glow  with  light  intense,  imperishable. 
Thus,  in  the  sparry  chambers  of  the  sea 
And  air-pavilions,  rainbow  tabernacles,^ 
They  study  Nature's  secrets,  and  enjoy 
No  poor  dominion. 

Tarn.  Are  they  beautiful, 
And  powerful  far  beyond  the  human  race  1 

Had.  Man's  feeble  heart  cannot  conceive  it.  When 
The  sage  described  them,  fiery  eloquence 
Flowed  from  his  lips,  his  bosom  heaved,  his  eyes 
Grew  bright  and  mystical ;  moved  by  the  theme, 
Like  one  who  feels  a  deity  within. 

Tarn.  Wondrous!     What  intercourse  have  they 
with  men "? 

Had.  Sometimes  they  deign  to  intermix  with  man, 
But  oft  with  woman. 


48  JAMES   A.    HILLHOUSE. 

Tarn.  Ha !  with  woman  ? 

Had.  She 

Attracts  them  with  her  gentler  virtues,  soft, 
And  beautiful,  and  heavenly,  like  themselves. 
They  have  been  known  to  love  her  with  a  passion 
Stronger  than  human. 

Tarn.  That  surpasses  all 
You  yet  have  told  me. 

Had.  This  the  sage  affirms  ; 
And  Moses,  darkly. 

Tarn.  How  do  they  appear1? 
How  manifest  their  love  1 

Had.  Sometimes  'tis  spiritual,  signified 
By  beatific  dreams,  or  more  distinct 
And  glorious  apparition.     They  have  stooped 
To  animate  a  human  form,  and  love 
Like  mortals. 

Tarn.  Frightful  to  be  so  beloved ! 
Who  could  endure  the  horrid  thought !     What  makes 
Thy  cold  hand  tremble  ?  or  is't  mine 
That  feels  so  deathy  1 

Had.  Dark  imaginations  haunt  me 
When  I  recall  the  dreadful  interview. 

Tarn.  Oh,  tell  them  not :  I  would  not  hear  them. 

Had.  But  why  contemn  a  spirit's  love  1  so  high, 
So  glorious,  if  he  haply  deigned  ? 

Tarn.  Forswear 
My  Maker !  love  a  demon ! 

Had.  No — oh,  no — 
My  thoughts  but  wandered.    Oft,  alas !  they  wander. 

Tarn.  Why  dost  thou  speak  so  sadly  now  ?    And 
Thine  eyes  are  fixed  again  upon  A  returns,  [lo ! 

Thus  ever,  when  thy  drooping  spirits  ebb, 
Thou  gazest  on  that  star.     Hath  it  the  pofwer 
To  cause  or  cure  thy  melancholy  mood  ? 

[He  appears  lost  in  thought. 
Tell  me,  ascrib'st  thou  influence  to  the  stars  I 

Had.  (starting.)  The  stars!    What  know'st  thou 
of  the  stars? 


JAMES   A.    HILLHOUSE.  49 

Tarn.  I  know  that  they  were  made  to  rule  the 

night. 
Had.  Like  palace  lamps !    Thou  echoest  well  thy 

grandsire. 

Woman !  the  stars  are  living,  glorious, 
Amazing,  infinite ! 

Tarn.  Speak  not  so  wildly. 
I  know  them  numberless,  resplendent,  set 
As  symbols  of  the  countless,  countless  years 
That  make  eternity. 

Had.  Eternity! 

Oh !  mighty,  glorious,  miserable  thought ! 
Had  ye  endured  like  those  great  sufferers, 
Like  them,  seen  ages,  myriad  ages  roll ; 
Could  ye  but  look  into  the  void  abyss 
With  eyes  experienced,  unobscured  by  torments, 
Then  mightst  thou  name  it,  name  it  feelingly. 
Tarn.  What  ails  thee,  Hadadl     Draw  me  not  so 

close. 
Had.  Tamar!   I  need  thy  love— more  than  thy 

love — 
Tarn.  Thy  cheek  is  wet  with  tears — Nay,  let  us 

part — 
'Tis  late — I  cannot,  must  not  linger. 

[Breaks  from  him,  and  exit. 

Had.  Loved  and  abhorred !     Still,  still  accursed ! 
[He  paces  twice  or  thrice  up  and  down  with  pas 
sionate  gestures ;  then  turns  his  face  to  the  sky, 
and  stands  a  moment  in  silence.] 

Oh!  where, 

In  the  illimitable  space,  in  what 
Profound  of  untried  misery,  when  all 
His  worlds,  his  rolling  orbs  of  light,  that  fill 
With  life  and  beauty  yonder  infinite, 
Their  radiant  journey  run,  for  ever  set, 
Where,  where,  in  what  abyss  shall  I  be  groaning  ? 

[Exit. 
E 


50  TIMOTHY   DWIGHT. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

THE  COUNTRY  SCHOOLMASTER. 

WHERE  yonder  humbler  spire  salutes  the  eye, 

It's  vane  slow  turning  in  the  liquid  sky, 

"Where,  in  light  gambols,  healthy  striplings  sport, 

Ambitious  learning  builds  her  outer  court ; 

A  grave  preceptor,  there,  her  usher  stands, 

And  rules  without  a  rod  her  little  bands. 

Some  half-grown  sprigs  of  learning  graced  his  brow : 

Little  he  knew,  though  much  he  wish'd  to  know, 

Enchanted  hung  o'er  Virgil's  honey'd  lay, 

And  smiled  to  see  desipierit  Horace  play ; 

Glean'd  scraps  of  Greek ;  and,  curious,  traced  afar, 

Through  Pope's  clear  glass,  the  bright  Maeonian  star. 

Yet  oft  his  students  at  his  wisdom  stared, 

For  many  a  student  to  his  side  repair'd, 

Surprised,  they  heard  him  Dilworth's  knots  untie, 

And  tell  what  lands  beyond  the  Atlantic  lie. 

Many  his  faults ;  his  virtues  small,  and  few  ; 
Some  little  good  he  did,  or  strove  to  do ; 
Laborious  still,  he  taught  the  early  mind, 
And  urged  to  manners  meek  and  thoughts  refined  ; 
Truth  he  impress'd,  and  every  virtue  praised  ; 
While  infant  eyes  in  wondering  silence  gazed ; 
The  worth  of  time  would  day  by  day  unfold, 
And  tell  them  every  hour  was  made  of  gold. 


THE    SOCIAL    VISIT. 

YE  Muses !  dames  of  dignified  renown, 
Revered  alike  in  country  and  in  town, 
Your  bard  the  mysteries  of  a  visit  show, 
For  sure  your  ladyships  those  mysteries  know : 
What  is  it,  then,  obliging  Sisters  !  say, 
The  debt  of  social  visiting  to  pay  ? 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  51 

'Tis  not  to  toil  before  the  idol  pier ; 
To  shine  the  first  in  fashion's  lunar  sphere ; 
By  sad  engagements  forced  abroad  to  roam, 
And  dread  to  find  the  expecting  fair  at  home ! 
To  stop  at  thirty  doors  in  half  a  day, 
Drop  the  gilt  card,  and  proudly  roll  away ; 
To  alight,  and  yield  the  hand  with  nice  parade  ; 
Up  stairs  to  rustle  in  the  stiff  brocade  ; 
Swim  through  the  drawing-room  with  studied  air, 
Catch  the  pink'd  beau,  and  shade  the  rival  fair ; 
To  sit,  to  curb,  to  toss  with  bridled  mien, 
Mince  the  scant  speech,  and  lose  a  glance  between ; 
Unfurl  the  fan,  display  the  snowy  arm, 
And  ope,  with  each  new  motion,  some  new  charm : 
Or  sit  in  silent  solitude,  to  spy 
Each  little  failing  with  malignant  eye  ; 
Or  chatter  with  incessancy  of  tongue, 
Careless  if  kind,  or  cruel,  right  or  wrong ; 
To  trill  of  us  and  ours,  of  mine  and  me, 
Our  house,  our  coach,  our  friends,  our  family, 
While  all  th'  excluded  circle  sit  in  pain, 
And  glance  their  cool  contempt  or  keen  disdain  : 
T'  inhale  from  proud  Nanking  a  sip  of  tea, 
And  wave  a  court'sy  trim  and  flirt  away : 
Or  waste  at  cards  peace,  temper,  health,  and  life, 
Begin  with  sullenness,  and  end  in  strife  ; 
Lose  the  rich  feast  by  friendly  converse  given, 
And  backward  tuni  from  happiness  and  heaven. 

It  is  in  decent  habit,  plain  and  neat, 
To  spend  a  few  choice  hours  in  converse  sweet, 
Careless  of  forms,  to  act  th'  unstudied  part, 
To  mix  in  friendship,  and  to  blend  the  heart ; 
To  choose  those  happy  themes  which  all  must  feel, 
The  moral  duties  and  the  household  weal, 
The  tale  of  sympathy,  the  kind  design, 
Where  rich  affections  soften  and  refine  ; 
T'  amuse,  to  be  amused,  to  bless,  be  bless'd, 
And  tune  to  harmony  the  common  breast ; 


52  TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 

To  cheer,  with  mild  good-humour's  sprightly  ray, 
And  smooth  life's  passage  o'er  its  thorny  way ; 
To  circle  round  the  hospitable  board, 
And  taste  each  good  our  generous  climes  afford  ; 
To  court  a  quick  return  with  accents  kind, 
And  leave,  at  parting,  some  regret  behind. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  PEQUODS. 

AH  me  !  while  up  the  long,  long  vale  of  time, 
Reflection  wanders  towards  th'  eternal  vast, 
How  starts  the  eye  at  many  a  change  sublime, 
Unbosom'd  dimly  by  the  ages  pass'd ! 
What  Mausoleums  crowd  the  mournful  waste  ! 
The  tombs  of  empires  fallen !  and  nations  gone ! 
Each,  once  inscribed  in  gold  with  "  AYE  TO  LAST," 
Sate  as  a  queen  ;  proclaim'd  the  world  her  own, 
And  proudly  cried,  "By  me  no  sorrows  shall  be 
known." 

Soon  fleets  the  sunbright  form  by  man  adored. 
Soon  fell  the  head  of  gold,  to  Time  a  prey  ; 
The  arms,  the  trunk,  his  cankering  tooth  devour'd, 
And  whirlwinds  blew  the  iron  dust  away. 
Where  dwelt  imperial  Timur  ?  far  astray, 
Some  lonely-musing  pilgrim  now  inquires  : 
And,  rack'd  by  storms,  and  hastening  to  decay, 
Mohammed's  mosque  foresees  its  final  fires, 
And  Rome's  more  lordly  temple  day  by  day  expires. 

As  o'er  proud  Asian  realms  the  traveller  winds, 
His  manly  spirit,  hush'd  by  terror,  falls  ; 
When  some  deceased  town's  lost  site  he  finds, 
Where  ruin  wild  his  pondering  eye  appals  ; 
Where  silence  swims  along  the  moulder'd  walls, 
And  broods  upon  departed  Grandeur's  tomb. 
Through  the  lone,  hollow  aisles  sad  Echo  calls 
At  each  slow  step ;  deep  sighs  the  breathing  gloom, 
And  weeping  fields  around  bewail  their  empress' 
doom. 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  53 

Where  o'er  a  hundred  realms  the  throne  uprose, 
The  screech-owl  nests,  the  panther  builds  his  home ; 
Sleep  the  dull  newts,  the  lazy  adders  doze, 
Where  pomp  and  luxury  danced  the  golden  room. 
Low  lies  in  dust  the  sky-resembled  dome  ; 
Tall  grass  around  the  broken  column  waves  ; 
And  brambles  climb,  and  lonely  thistles  bloom : 
The  moulder'd  arch  the  weedy  streamlet  laves, 
And    low   resound,    beneath,   unnumber'd    sunken 
graves. 

Soon  fleets  the  sunbright  form  by  man  adored, 
And  soon  man's  demon  chiefs  from  memory  fade. 
In  musty  volume  now  must  be  explored, 
Where  dwelt  imperial  nations,  long  decay'd. 
The  brightest  meteors  angry  clouds  invade  ; 
And  where  the  wonders  glitter'd,  none  explain. 
Where  Carthage,  with  proud  hand,  the  trident  sway'd, 
Now  mud-wall'd  cots  sit  sullen  oiv  the  plain, 
And  wandering,  fierce  and  wild,  sequester'd  Arabs 
reign. 

In  thee,  oh  Albion !  queen  of  nations,  live     [known ; 

Whatever    splendours    earth's   wide    realms   have 

In  thee  proud  Persia  sees  her  pomp  revive,  ' 

And  Greece  her  arts,  and  Rome  her  lordly  throne  : 

By  every  wind  thy  Tyrian  fleets  are  blown ; 

Supreme,  on  Fame's  dread  roll,  thy  heroes  stand ; 

All  ocean's  realms  thy  naval  sceptre  own ; 

Of  bards,  of  sages,  how  august  thy  band! 

And  one  rich  Eden  blooms  around  thy  garden'd  land. 

But  oh,  how  vast  thy  crimes !    Through  Heaven's 

great  year. 

When  few  centurial  suns  have  traced  their  way ; 
When  Southern  Europe,  worn  by  feuds  severe, 
Weak,  doting,  fallen,  has  bow'd  to  Russian  sway, 
And  setting  Glory  beam'd  her  farewell  ray, 
To  wastes,  perchance,  thy  brilliant  fields  shall  turn  ; 
In  dust  thy  temples,  towers,  and  towns  decay ; 
E2 


54  TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 

The  forest  howl,  where  London's  turrets  burn, 
And  all  thy  garlands  deck  thy  sad,  funereal  urn. 

Some  land,  scarce  glimmering  in  the  light  of  fame, 

Scepter'd  with  arta  and  arms  (if  I  divine), 

Some  unknown  wild,  some  shore  without  a  name, 

In  all  thy  pomp  shall  then  majestic  shine. 

As  silver-headed  Time's  slow  years  decline. 

Not  ruins  only  meet  th'  inquiring  eye  :  [twine, 

Where  round  yon  mouldering   oak  vain  brambles 

The  filial  stem,  already  towering  high,  [sky. 

Ere  long  shall  stretch  his  arms,  and  nod  in  yonder 

Where  late  resounded  the  wild  woodland  roar, 
Now  heaves  the  palace,  now  the  temple  smiles ; 
Where  frown'd  the  rude  rock  and  the  desert  shore, 
Now  pleasure  sports,  and  business  want  beguiles, 
And  Commerce  wings  her  flight  to  thousand  isles ; 
Culture  walks  forth ;  gay  laugh  the  loaded  fields : 
And  jocund  Labour  plays  his  harmless  wiles ; 
Glad  Science  brightens  ;  Art  her  mansion  builds  ; 
And  Peace  uplifts  her  wand,  and  HEAVEN  his  blessing 
yields. 

O'er  these  sweet  fields,  so  lovely  now  and  gay, 
Where  modest  Nature  finds  each  want  supplied, 
Where  homeborn  Happiness  delights  to  play, 
And  counts  her  little  flock  with  household  pride, 
Long  frown'd,  from  age  to  age,  a  forest  w7ide  : 
Here  hung  the  slumbering  bat ;  the  serpent  dire 
Nested  his  brood,  and  drank  th'  impoison'd  tide ; 
Wolves  peal'd  the  dark,  drear  night  in  hideous  choir, 
Nor  shrunk  th'  unmeasured  howl  from  Sol's  terrific 
fire. 

No  charming  cot  imbank'd  the  pebbly  stream ; 
No  mansion  tower'd,  nor  garden  teem'd  with  good ; 
No  lawn  expanded  to  the  April  beam, 
Nor  mellow  harvest  hung  its  bending  load ; 
Nor  science  dawn'd,  nor  life  with  beauty  glow'd, 


TIMOTHY   DWIGHT.  55 

Nor  temple  whiten'd  in  th'  enchanting  dell ; 
Jn  clusters  wild  the  sluggish  wigwam  stood ; 
And,  borne  in  snaky  paths,  the  Indian  fell         [yell. 
Now  aim'd  the  death  unseen,  now  screamed  the  tiger- 
Even  now,  perhaps,  on  human  dust  I  tread, 
Pondering  with  solemn  pause  the  wrecks  of  time  ; 
Here  sleeps,  perchance,  among  the  vulgar  dead, 
Some  chief,  the  lofty  theme  of  Indian  rhyme, 
Who  loved  Ambition's  cloudy  steep  to  climb, 
And  smiled*  deaths,  dangers,  rivals  to  engage ; 
Who  roused  his  followers'  souls  to  deeds  sublime, 
Kindling  to  furnace  heat  vindictive  rage, 
And  soar'd  Caesarean  heights,  the  Phoenix  of  his  age. 

In  yon  small  field  that  dimly  steals  from  sight 
(From  yon  small  field  these  meditations  grow), 
Turning  the  sluggish  soil  from  morn  to  night, 
The  plodding  hind,  laborious,  drives  his  plough, 
Nor  dreams  a  nation  sleeps  his  foot  below. 
There,  undisturbed  by  the  roaring  wave, 
Released  from  war,  and  far  from  deadly  foe, 
Lies  down  in  endless  rest  a  nation  brave, 
And  trains  in  tempests  born  there  find  a  quiet  grave. 

Oft  have  I  heard  the  tale,  when  matron  sere 

Sung  to  my  infant  ear  the  song  of  wo ; 

Of  maiden  meek  consumed  with  pining  care, 

Around  whose  tomb  the  wild-rose  loved  to  blow  : 

Or  told,  with  swimming  eyes,  how,  long  ago, 

Remorseless  Indians,  all  in  midnight  dire, 

The  little  sleeping  village  did  o'erthrow, 

Bidding  the  cruel  flames  to  heaven  aspire,         [fire. 

And  scalp'd  the  hoary  head,  and  burn'd  the  babe  with 

Then,  fancy-fired,  her  memory  wing'd  its  flight 

To  long-forgotten  wars  and  dread  alarms, 

To  chiefs  obscure,  but  terrible  in  fight, 

Who  mock'd  each  foe,  and  laugh'd  at  deadliest,  harms, 

Sidneys  in  zeal,  and  Washingtons  in  arms. 


56  TIMOTHY    DW1GHT. 

By  instinct  tender  to  the  woes  of  man, 
My  heart  bewildering  with  sweet  pity's  charms, 
Through  solemn  scenes,  with  Nature's  step  she  ran, 
And  hushed  her  audience  small,  and  thus  the  tale 
began. 

"  Through  verdant  banks,  where  Thames's  branches 
Long  held  the  Pequods  an  extensive  sway ;     [glide, 
Bold,  savage,  fierce,  of  arms  the  glorious  pride, 
And  bidding  all  the  circling  realms  obey. 
Jealous,  they  saw  the  tribes  beyond  the  sea 
Plant  in  their  climes  ;  and  towns  and  cities  rise ; 
Ascending  castles  foreign  flags  display ; 
Mysterious  art  new  scenes  of  life  devise ;       [skies. 
And  steeds  insult  the  plains,  and  cannon  rend  the 

"  They  saw,  and  soon  the  strangers'  fate  decreed, 
And  soon  of  war  disclosed  the  crimson  sign ; 
First,  hapless  Stone  !  they  bade  thy  bosom  bleed, 
A  guiltless  offering  at  th'  infernal  shrine  : 
Then,  gallant  Norton !  the  hard  fate  was  thine, 
By  ruffians  butcher'd,  and  denied  a  grave  : 
Thee,  generous  Oldham  !  next  the  doom  malign 
Arrested;  nor  could  all  thy  courage  save  ; 
Forsaken,  plunder'd,  cleft,  and  buried  in  the  wave. 

"  Soon  the  sad  tidings  reach'd  the  general  ear, 
And  prudence,  pity,  vengeance,  all  inspire  : 
Invasive  war  their  gallant  friends  prepare  ; 
And  soon  a  noble  band,  with  purpose  dire, 
And  threatening  arms,  the  murderous  fiends  require  : 
Small  was  the  band,  but  never  taught  to  yield ; 
Breasts  faced  with  steel,  and  souls  instinct  with  fire  : 
Such  souls  from  Sparta  Persia's  world  repell'd, 
When  nations  paved  the  ground,  and  Xerxes  flew 
the  field. 

"  The  rising  clouds  the  savage  (thief  descried, 
And  round  the  forest  bade  his  heroes  arm  ; 
To  arms  the  painted  warriors  proudly  hied, 
And  through  surrounding  nations  rung  th'  alarm. 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  57 

The  nations  heard ;  but  smiled  to  see  the  storm, 
With  ruin  fraught,  o'er  Pequod  mountains  driven; 
And  felt  infernal  joy  the  bosom  warm, 
To  see  their  light  hang  o'er  the  skirts  of  even, 
And  other  suns  arise,  to  gild  a  kinder  heaven. 

"  Swift  to  the  Pequod  fortress  Mason  sped, 
Far  in  the  wildering  wood's  impervious  gloom ; 
A  lonely  castle,  brown  with  twilight  dread, 
Where  oft  th'  embowell'd  captive  met  his  doom, 
And  frequent  heaved  around  the  hollow  tomb  ; 
Scalps  hung  in  rows,   and  whitening  bones  were 

strew'd ; 

Where,  round  the  broiling  babe,  fresh  from  the  womb, 
With  howls  the  Powaw  fill'd  the  dark  abode,  [god. 
And  screams  and  midnight  prayers  invoked  the  evil 

"  There  too,  with  awful  rites,  the  hoary  priest, 
Without,  beside  the  moss-grown  altar  stood, 
His  sable  form  in  magic  cincture  dress'd, 
And  heap'd  the  mingled  offering  to  his  god, 
What  time,  with  golden  light,  calm  evening  glow'd. 
The  mystic  dust,  the  flower  of  silver  bloom, 
And  spicy  herb,  his  hand  in  order  strew'd ; 
Bright  rose  the  curling  flame  ;  and  rich  perfume 
On  smoky  wings  upflew,  or  settled  round  the  tomb. 

"  Then  o'er  the  circus  danced  the  maddening  throng, 
As  erst  the  Thyas  roam'd  dread  Nysa  round, 
And  struck  to  forest  notes  th'  ecstatic  song, 
While  slow  beneath  them  heaved  the  wavy  ground. 
With  a  low,  lingering  groan  of  dying  sound, 
The  woodland  rumbled ;  murmur'd  deep  each  stream ; 
Shrill  sung  the  leaves  ;  all  ether  sigh'd  profound ; 
Pale  tufts  of  purple  topped  the  silver  flame, 
And  many-colour'd  forms  on  evening  breezes  came. 

"  Thin,  twilight  forms,  attired  in  changing  sheen 
Of  plumes  high-tinctured  in  the  western  ray ; 
Bending,  they  peep'd  the  fleecy  folds  between, 
Their  wings  light-rustling  in  the  breath  of  May. 


58  TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 

Soft-hovering  round  the  fire,  in  mystic  play, 
They  snuff'd  the  incense  waved  in  clouds  afar. 
Then,  silent,  floated  towards  the  setting  day : 
Eve  redden'd  each  fine  form,  each  misty  car, 
And  through  them  faintly  gleam'd,  at  times,  the  west 
ern  star. 

"  Then  (so  tradition  sings)  the  train  behind, 
In  plumy  zones  of  rainbow'd  beauty  dress'd, 
Rode  the  Great  Spirit  in  th'  obedient  wind, 
In  yellow  clouds  slow-sailing  from  the  west. 
With  dawning  smiles  the  God  his  votaries  bless'd. 
And  taught  where  deer  retired  to  ivy  dell ; 
What  chosen  chief  with  proud  command  t'  invest ; 
Where  crept  th'  approaching  foe,  with  purpose  fell, 
And  where  to  wind  the  scout,  and  war's  dark  storm 
dispel. 

"  There,  on  her  lover's  tomb,  in  silence  laid,    [beam. 
While  still  and  sorrowing  shower'd  the  moon's  pale 
At  times  expectant,  slept  the  widow'd  maid, 
Her  soul  far-wandering  on  the  sylph-wing'd  dream. 
Wafted  from  evening  skies  on  sunny  stream, 
Her  darling  youth  with  silver  pinions  shone ; 
With  voice  of  music,  tuned  to  sweetest  theme, 
He  told  of  shell-bright  bowers  beyond  the  sun, 
Where  years  of  endless  joy  o'er  Indian  lovers  run. 

"  But  now  nor  awful  rites  nor  potent  spell 

To  silence  charm'd  the  peals  of  coming  war ; 

Or  told  the  dread  recesses  of  the  dell, 

Where  glowing  Mason  led  his  bands  from  far : 

No  spirit,  buoyant  on  his  airy  car, 

Controll'd  the  whirlwind  of  invading  fight : 

Deep  died  in  blood,  dun  evening's  falling  star 

Sent  sad  o'er  western  hills  its  parting  light, 

And  no  returning  morn  dispersed  the  long  dark  night 

"  On  the  drear  walls  a  sudden  splendour  glow'd, 
There  Mason  shone,  and  there  his  veterans  pour'd. 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT.  59 

Anew  the  hero  claim'd  the  fiends  of  blood,       [er'd, 
While  answering  storms  of  arrows  round  him  show- 
And  the  war-scream  the  ear  with  anguish  gored. 
Alone  he  burst  the  gate  :  the  forest  round 
Re-echoed  death ;  the  peal  of  onset  roar'd  ; 
In  rush'd  the  squadrons ;  earth  in  blood  was  drown'd ; 
And  gloomy  spirits  fled,  and  corses  hid  the  ground. 

"  Not  long  in  dubious  fight  the  host  had  striven, 
When,  kindled  by  the  musket's  potent  flame, 
In  clouds  and  fire  the  castle  rose  to  heaven, 
And  gloom'd  the  world  with  melancholy  beam. 
Then  hoarser  groans  with  deeper  anguish  came, 
And  fiercer  fight  the  keen  assault  repell'd : 
Nor  even  these  ills  the  savage  breast  could  tame ; 
Like  hell's  deep  caves  the  hideous  region  yell'd, 
'Till  death  and  sweeping  fire  laid  waste  the  hostile 
field. 

"  Soon  the  sad  tale  their  friends  surviving  heard, 
And  Mason,  Mason,  rung  in  every  wind  : 
Quick  from  their  rugged  wilds  they  disappear'd, 
Howl'd  down  the  hills,  and  left  the  blast  behind. 
Their  fastening  foes  by  generous  Stoughton  join'd, 
Hung  o'er  the  rear,  and  every  brake  explored ; 
But  such  dire  terror  seized  the  savage  mind, 
So  swift  and  black  a  storm  behind  them  lower'd, 
On  wings  of  raging  fear,  through  spacious  realms 
they  scoured. 

"  Amid  a  circling  marsh  expanded  wide, 
To  a  lone  hill  the  Pequods  wound  their  way ; 
And  none  but  Heaven  the  mansion  had  descried, 
Close-tangled,  wild,  impervious  to  the  day ; 
But  one  poor  wanderer,  loitering  long  astray, 
Wilder'd  in  labyrinths  of  pathless  wood, 
In  a  tall  tree  imbower'd,  obscurely  lay :         [show'd 
Straight  summon'd  down,  the  trembling  suppliant 
Where  lurk'd  his  vanish'd  friends  within  their  drear 
abode. 


60  TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 

"  To  death  the  murderers  were  anew  required, 
A  pardon  proffer'd,  and  a  peace  assured  ; 
And,  though  with  vengeful  heat  their  foes  were  fired, 
Their  lives,  their  freedom,  and  their  lands  secured. 
Some  yielding  heard.     In  fastness  strong  immured, 
The  rest  the  terms  refused  with  brave  disdain ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  peaceful  herald  lured, 
Then  bade  a  shower  of  arrows  round  him  rain, 
And  wing'd  him  swift  from  danger  to  the  distant 
plain. 

"  Through  the  sole,  narrow  way,  to  vengeance  led, 
To  final  fight  our  generous  heroes  drew ;        [shade, 
And  Stoughton  now  had  pass'd  the  moor's  black 
When  hell's  terrific  region  scream'd  anew. 
Undaunted  on  their  foes  they  fiercely  flew ; 
As  fierce,  the  dusky  warriors  crowd  the  fight ; 
Despair  inspires  ;  to  combat's  face  they  glue ; 
With  groans  and  shouts  they  rage,  unknowing  flight, 
And  close  their  sullen  eyes  in  shades  of  endless 
night." 

Indulge,  my  native  land !  indulge  the  tear, 
That  steals  impassion'd  o'er  a  nation's  doom : 
To  me  each  twig  from  Adam's  stock  is  near, 
And  sorrows  fall  upon  an  Indian's  tomb. 
And  oh,  ye  chiefs !  in  yonder  starry  home, 
Accept  the  humble  tribute  of  this  rhyme. 
Your  gallant  deeds  in  Greece  or  haughty  Rome, 
By  Maro  sung  or  Homer's  harp  sublime, 
Had  charm'd  the  world's  wide  round,  and  triumph'd 
over  time. 


JOHN    TRUMBULL.  61 


JOHN  TRUMBULL. 

CHARACTER  OF  M'FINGAL. 

WHEN  Yankees,  skilTd  in  martial  rule, 
First  put  the  British  troops  to  school ; 
Instructed  them  in  warlike  trade, 
And  new  manoeuvres  of  parade ; 
The  true  war-dance  of  Yankee-reels, 
And  manual  exercise  of  heels  ; 
Made  them  give  up,  like  saints  complete, 
The  arm  of  flesh,  and  trust  the  feet, 
And  work,  like  Christians  undissembling, 
Salvation  out  by  fear  and  trembling  ; 
Taught  Percy  fashionable  races, 
And  modern  modes  of  Chevy-Chaces  :* 
From  Boston,  in  his  best  array, 
Great  Squire  M'Fingal  took  his  way, 
And,  graced  with  ensigns  of  renown, 
Steer'd  homeward  to  his  native  town. 

His  high  descent  our  heralds  trace 
To  Ossian's  famed  Fingalian  race  ; 
For  though  their  name  some  part  may  lack, 
Old  Fingai  spelt  it  with  a  Mac  ; 
Which  great  M'Pherson,  with  submission, 
We  hope  will  add  the  next  edition. 

His  fathers  flourish'd  in  the  Highlands 
Of  Scotia's  fog-benighted  islands  ; 
Whence  gain'd  our  squire  two  gifts  by  right, 
Rebellion  and  the  second-sight. 
Of  these  the  first,  in  ancient  days, 
Had  gain'd  the  noblest  palms  of  praise, 
'Gainst  kings  stood  forth,  and  many  a  crown'd 
With  terror  of  its  might  confounded ;        [head 

*  Lord  Percy  commanded  the  party  that  was  first  opposed  by 
the  Americans  at  Lexington.    This  allusion  to  the  family  renown 
of  Chevy-Chace  arose  from  the  precipitate  manner  of  his  quitting 
the  field  of  battle,  and  returning  to  Boston. 
F 


62  JOHN  TRUMBULL. 

Till  rose  a  king  with  potent  charm 
-    His  foes  by  goodness  to  disarm  ; 
"Whom  ev'ry  Scot  and  Jacobite 
Straight  fell  in  love  with— at  first  sight ; 
"Whose  gracious  speech,  with  aid  of  pensions, 
Hush'd  down  all  murmurs  of  dissensions, 
And  with  the  sound  of  potent  metal, 
Brought  all  their  blust'ring  swarms  to  settle  ; 
Who  rain'd  his  ministerial  mannas, 
Till  loud  Sedition  sung  hosannas  ; 
The  good  lords-bishops  and  the  kirk 
United  in  the  public  work  ; 
Rebellion  from  the  northern  regions, 
With  Bute  and  Mansfield  swore  allegiance, 
And  all  combined  to  raze,  as  nuisance, 
Of  church  and  state,  the  constitutions ; 
Pull  down  the  empire,  on  whose  ruins 
They  meant  to  edify  their  new  ones ; 
Enslave  the  Amer'can  wildernesses, 
And  tear  the  provinces  in  pieces. 
For  these  our  squire,  among  the  valient'st, 
Employ'd  his  time,  and  tools,  and  talents; 
And  in  their  cause,  with  manly  zeal, 
Used  his  first  virtue  to  rebel ; 
And  found  this  new  rebellion  pleasing 
As  his  old  king-destroying  treason. 
Nor  less  avail'd  his  optic  sleight, 
And  Scottish  gift  of  second-sight. 
No  ancient  sibyl  famed  in  rhyme, 
Saw  deeper  in  the  womb  of  time  ; 
No  block  in  old  Dodona's  grove 
Could  ever  more  orac'lar  prove. 
Nor  only  saw  he  all  that  was, 
But  much  that  never  came  to  pass  ; 
Whereby  all  prophets  far  outwent  he, 
Though  former  days  produced  a  plenty : 
For  any  man  with  half  an  eye, 
What  stands  before  him  may  espy ; 


JOHN    TRUMBULL.  63 

But  optics  sharp  it  needs,  I  ween, 
To  see  what  is  not  to  be  seen. 
As  in  the  days  of  ancient  fame, 
Prophets  and  poets  were  the  same, 
And  all  the  praise  that  poets  gain 
Is  but  for  what  th'  invent  and  feign : 
So  gain'd  our  squire  his  fame  by  seeing 
Such  things  as  never  would  have  being. 
Whence  he  for  oracles  was  grown 
The  very  tripod  of  his  town. 
Gazettes  no  sooner  rose  a  lie  in, 
But  straight  he  fell  to  prophesying ; 
Made  dreadful  slaughter  in  his  course, 
O'erthrew  provincials,  foot  and  horse  ; 
Brought  armies  o'er  by  sudden  pressings 
Of  Hanoverians,  Swiss,  and  Hessians  ; 
Feasted  with  blood  his  Scottish  clan, 
And  hangM  all  rebels  to  a  man  ; 
Divided  their  estates  and  pelf, 
And  took  a  goodly  share  himself.* 
All  this  with  spirit  energetic, 
He  did  by  second-sight  prophetic. 

Thus  stored  with  intellectual  riches, 
Skill'd  was  our  squire  in  making  speeches, 
Where  strength  of  brains  united  centres 
With  strength  of  lungs  surpassing  Stentor's. 
But  as  some  muskets  so  contrive  it, 
As  oft  to  rniss  the  mark  they  drive  at, 
And,  though  well  aim'd  at  duck  or  plover, 
Bear  wide  and  kick  their  owners  over  : 
So  fared  our  squire,  whose  reas'ning  toil 
Would  often  on  himself  recoil, 

*  This  prophecy,  like  some  of  the  prayers  of  Homer's  heroes, 
was  but  half  accomplished.  The  Hanoverians.  &c.,  indeed 
came  over,  and  much  were  they  feasted  with  blood ;  but  the 
hanging  of  the  rebels  and  the  dividing  their  estates  remain  un 
fulfilled.  This,  however,  cannot  be  the  fault  of  our  hero,  but 
rather  the  British  minister,  who  left  off  the  war  before  the  work 
waa  completed. 


64  JOHN  'TltUMBULL. 

And  so  much  injured  more  his  side, 
The  stronger  arg'ments  he  applied ; 
As  old  war-elephants,  dismay'd, 
Trod  down  the  troops  they  came  to  aid, 
And  hurt  their  own  side  more  in  battle 
Than  less  and  ordinary  cattle  : 
Yet  at  town  meetings  ev'ry  chief 
Pinn'd  faith  on  great  M'Fingal's  sleeve, 
And,  as  he  motioned  all  by  rote, 
Raised  sympathetic  hands  to  vote. 

The  town,  our  hero's  scene  of  action, 
Had  long  been  torn  by  feuds  of  faction  ; 
And  as  each  party's  strength  prevails, 
It  turn'd  up  diff  rent  heads  or  tails  ; 
With  constant  rattling,  in  a  trice 
Show'd  various  sides,  as  oft  as  dice  : 
As  that  famed  weaver,  wife  t'  Ulysses, 
By  night  each  day's  work  pick'd  in  pieces  ; 
And  though  she  stoutly  did  bestir  her, 
Its  finishing  was  ne'er  the  nearer  : 
So  did  this  town  with  steadfast  zeal, 
Weave  cobwebs  for  the  public  weal, 
Which,  when  completed,  or  before, 
A  second  vote  in  pieces  tore. 
They  met,  made  speeches  full  long-winded, 
Resolved,  protested,  and  rescinded ; 
Addresses  sign'd,  then  chose  committees, 
To  stop  all  drinking  of  Bohea-teas  ; 
With  winds  of  doctrine  veer'd  about, 
And  turn'd  all  Whig  committees  out. 
Meanwhile  our  hero,  as  their  head, 
In  pomp  the  Tory  faction  led. 
Still  following,  as  the  squire  should  please, 
Successive  on.  like  files  of  geese. 


WILLIAM    CLIFTON.  65 


ST.    JOHN  HONEYWOOD. 
INEFFICACY  OP  PUNISHMENTS. 

WITH  stronger  force  than  fear  temptations  draw, 
And  cunning  thinks  to  parry  with  the  law. 
"  My  brother  swung,  poor  novice  in  his  art, 
He  blindly  stumbled  on  a  hangman's  cart ; 
But  wiser  I,  assuming  every  shape, 
As  Proteus  erst,  am  certain  to  escape." 
The  knave,  thus  jeering,  on  his  skill  relies, 
For  never  villain  deemed  himself  unwise,     [wide, 

When  earth  convulsive  heaved,  and,  yawning 
Ingulfed  in  darkness  Lisbon's  spiry  pride, 
At  that  dread  hour  of  ruin  and  dismay 
'Tis  famed  the  harden'd  felon  prowled  for  prey ; 
Nor  trembling  earth  nor  thunders  could  restrain 
His  daring  feet,  which  trod  the  sinking  fane  ; 
Whence,  while  the  fabric  to  its  centre  shook, 
By  impious  stealth  the  hallowed  vase  he  took. 

What  time  the  gaping,  vulgar  throng  to  see 
The  wretch  expire  on  Tyburn's  fatal  tree, 
Fast  by  the  crowd  the  luckier  villain  clings, 
And  pilfers  while  the-  hapless  culprit  swings. 


WILLIAM   CLIFTON. 

ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LITERATURE. 

WHEN  Truth  in  classic  majesty  appear'd, 
And  Greece  on  high  the  dome  of  Science  rear'd, 
Patience  and  Perseverance,  Care  and  Pain, 
Alone  the  steep,  the  rough  ascent  could  gain  : 
None  but  the  great  the  sun-clad  summit  found ; 
The  weak  were  baffled,  and  the  strong  were  crown'd. 
The  tardy  transcript's  high-wrought  page  confined 
To  one  pursuit  the  undivided  mind. 
F2 


66  WILLIAM  CLIFTON. 

No  venal  critic  fattened  on  the  trade, 
Books  for  delight,  and  not  for  sale  were  made  ; 
Then  shone  superior  in  the  realms  of  thought, 
The  chief  who  goyern'd,  and  the  sage  who  taught ; 
The  drama  then  with  deathless  bays  was  wreath'd, 
The  statue  quicken'd,  and  the  canvass  breathed. 
The  poet,  then,  with  unresisted  art, 
Sway'd  every  impulse  of  the  captive  heart. 
Touch'd  with  a  beam  of  Heaven's  creative  mind, 
His  spirit  kindled,  and  his  taste  refined  : 
Incessant  toil  inform'd  his  rising  youth ; 
Thought  grew  to  thought,  and  truth  attracted  truth, 
Till,  all  complete,  his  perfect  soul  display 'd 
Some  bloom  of  genius  that  could  never  fade. 
So  the  sage  oak,  to  Nature's  mandate  true, 
Advanced  but  slow,  and  strengthen'd  as  he  grew ! 
But  when  at  length  (full  many  a  season  o'er) 
His  head  the  blossoms  of  high  promise  bore ; 
When  steadfast  were  his  roots,  and  sound  his  heart, 
He  bade  oblivion  and  decay  depart ; 
And,  storm  and  time  defying,  still  remains 
The  never-dying  glory  of  the  plains. 

Then,  if  some  thoughtless  Bavins  dared  appear, 
Short  was  his  date,  and  limited  his  sphere  ; 
He  could  but  please  the  changeling  mob  a  day, 
Then,  like  his  noxious  labours,  pass  away : 
So,  near  a  forest  tall,  some  worthless  flower 
Enjoys  the  triumphs  of  its  gaudy  hour, 
Scatters  its  little  poison  through  the  skies, 
Then  droops  its  empty,  hated  head,  and  dies. 

Still,  as  from  famed  Ilyssus'  classic  shore, 
To  Mincius'  banks  the  Muse  her  laurel  bore, 
The  sacred  plant  to  hands  divine  was  given, 
And  deathless  Maro  nursed  the  boon  of  Heaven. 
Exalted  bard  !  to  hear  thy  gentler  voice, 
The  valleys  listen,  and  their  swains  rejoice ; 
But  when,  on  some  wild  mountain's  awful  form, 
We  hear  thy  spirit  chanting  to  the  storm, 


WILLIAM  CLIFTON.  67 

Of  battling  chiefs,  and  armies  laid  in  gore, 

We  rage,  we  sigh,  we  wonder  and  adore. 

Thus  Rome  with  Greece  in  rival  splendour  shone, 

But  claim'd  immortal  satire  for  her  own : 

While  Horace  pierced  full  oft  the  wanton  breast 

With  sportive  censure  and  resistless  jest ; 

And  that  Etrurian,  whose  indignant  lay 

Thy  kindred  genius*  can  so  well  display, 

WTith  many  a  well-aimed  thought  and  pointed  line, 

Drove  the  bold  villain  from  his  black  design. 

For  as  those  mighty  masters  of  the  lyre, 

With  temper'd  dignity  or  quenchless  ire, 

Through  all  the  various  paths  of  science  trod, 

Their  school  was  Nature,  and  their  teacher  God. 

Nor  did  the  Muse  decline,  till  o'er  her  head 
The  savage  tempest  of  the  North  was  spread ; 
Till  arm'd  with  desolation's  bolt  it  came, 
And  wrapp'd  her  temple  in  funereal  flame. 

But  soon  the  Arts  once  more  a  dawn  diffuse, 
And  Petrarch  hail'd  it  with  his  morning  muse  ; 
Boccace  and  Dante  join'd  the  choral  lay, 
And  Arno  glisten'd  with  returning  day. 
Thus  Science  rose  ;  and,  all  her  troubles  pass'd, 
She  hoped  a  steady,  tranquil  reign  at  last ; 
But  Faustus  came  :  (indulge  the  painful  thought), 
Were  not  his  countless  volumes  dearly  bought ; 
For,  while  to  every  clime  and  class  they  flew, 
Their  worth  diminish'd  as  their  numbers  grew. 
Some  pressman,  rich  in  Homer's  wealthy  page, 
Could  give  ten  epics  to  one  wondering  age  ; 
A  single  thought  supplied  the  great  design, 
And  clouds  of  Iliads  spread  from  every  line. 
Nor  Homer's  glowing  page,  nor  Virgil's  fire. 
Could  one  lone  breast  with  equal  flame  inspire  ; 

*  These  lines  were  addressed  to  the  English  satirist  William 
Gifford. 


68  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 

But,  lost  in  books,  irregular  and  wild, 

The  poet  wonder'd,  and  the  critic  smiled  : 

The  friendly  smile  a  bulkier  work  repays ; 

For  fools  will  print,  while  greater  fools  will  praise. 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

THE  SYLPH  OF  SPRING. 

THEN  spake  the  Sylph  of  Spring  serene, 
'Tis  I  thy  joyous  heart,  I  ween, 

With  sympathy  shall  move  : 
For  I  with  living  melody 
Of  birds  in  choral  symphony, 
First  waked  thy  soul  to  poesy, 
To  piety  and  love. 

When  thou,  at  call  of  vernal  breeze, 
And  beck'ning  bough  of  budding  trees, 

Hast  left  thy  sullen  fire  ; 
And  stretch'd  thee  in  some  mossy  dell, 
And  heard  the  browsing  wether's  bell, 
Blythe  echoes  rousing  from  their  cell 

To  swell  the  tinkling  quire  : 

Or  heard  from  branch  of  flow'ring  thorn 
The  song  of  friendly  cuckoo  warn 

The  tardy-moving  swain ; 
Hast  bid  the  purple  swallow  hail ; 
And  seen  him  now  through  ether  sail, 
Now  sweeping  downward  o'er  the  vale, 

And  skimming  now  the  plain  ; 

Then,  catching  with  a  sudden  glance 
The  bright  and  silver-clear  expanse 

Of  some  broad  river's  stream, 
Beheld  the  boats  adown  it  glide, 
And  motion  wind  again  the  tide, 
Where,  chain'd  in  ice  by  Winter's  pride, 

Late  roll'd  the  heavy  team  : 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON.  69 

Or,  lured  by  some  fresh-scented  gale, 
That  woo'd  the  moored  fishers'  sail 

To  tempt  the  mighty  main, 
Hast  watch'd  the  dim  receding  shore, 
Now  faintly  seen  the  ocean  o'er, 
Like  hanging  cloud,  and  now  no  more 

To  bound  the  sapphire  plain ; 

Then,  wrapped  in  night,  the  scudding  bark 
(That  seem'd,  self-poised  amid  the  dark, 

Through  upper  air  to  leap), 
Beheld,  from  thy  most  fearful  height, 
The  rapid  dolphin's  azure  light 
Cleave,  like  a  living  meteor  bright, 

The  darkness  of  the  deep  : 

'Twas  mine  the  warm,  awakening  hand 
That  made  thy  grateful  heart  expand, 

And  feel  the  high  control 
Of  Him,  the  mighty  Power,  that  moves 
Amid  the  waters  and  the  groves, 
And  through  his  vast  creation  proves 

His  omnipresent  soul. 

Or,  brooding  o'er  some  forest  rill, 
Fringed  with  the  early  daffodil, 

And  quiv'riiig  maiden-hair, 
When  thou  hast  mark'd  the  dusky  bed, 
With  leaves  and  water-rust  o'erspread, 
That  seem'd  an  amber  light  to  shed 

On  all  was  shadow'd  there ; 

And  thence,  as  by  its  murmur  call'd, 
The  current  traced  to  where  it  brawl'd 

Beneath  the  noontide  ray ; 
And  there  beheld  the  checker'd  shade 
Of  waves,  in  many  a  sinuous  braid, 
That  o'er  the  sunny  channel  play'd, 

With  motion  ever  gay : 


70  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 

'Twas  I  to  these  the  magic  gave, 
That  made  thy  heart,  a  willing  slave, 

To  gentle  Nature  bend ; 
And  taught  thee  how  with  tree  and  flower, 
And  whispering  gale,  and  dropping  shower, 
In  converse  sweet  to  pass  the  hour, 

As  with  an  early  friend. 

That  mid  the  noontide  sunny  haze, 
Did  in  thy  languid  bosom  raise 

The  raptures  of  the  boy ; 
When,  waked  as  if  to  second  birth, 
Thy  soul  through  every  pore  look'd  forth, 
And  gazed  upon  the  beauteous  Earth 

With  myriad  eyes  of  joy  : 

That  made  thy  heart,like  His  above, 
To  flow  with  universal  love 

For  every  living  thing. 
And  oh !  if  I,  with  ray  divine, 
Thus  tempering,  did  thy  soul  refine, 
Then  let  thy  gentle  heart  be  mine, 

And  bless  the  Sylph  of  Spring. 


THE    PAINT-KING. 

FAIR  Ellen  was  long  the  delight  of  the  young, 

No  damsel  could  with  her  compare  ; 
Her  charms  were  the  theme  of  the  heart  and  the 

tongue, 
And  bards  without  number  in  ecstasies  sung, 

The  beauties  of  Ellen  the  fair. 

Yet  cold  was  the  maid ;  and  though  legions  advanced, 

All  drill'd  by  Ovidean  art, 
And  languish'd  and  ogled,  protested  and  danced, 
Like  shadows  they  came,  and  like  shadows  they 
glanced 

From  the  hard-polish'd  ice  of  her  heart. 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON.  71 

Yet  still  did  the  heart  of  fair  Ellen  implore 

A  something  that  could  not  be  found  ; 
Like  a  sailor  she  seem'd  on  a  desolate  shore, 
With  nor  house,  nor  a  tree,  nor  a  sound  but  the  roar 
Of  breakers  high  dashing  around. 

From  object  to  object  still,  still  would  she  veer, 
Though  nothing,  alas !  could  she  find  ; 

Like  the  moon,  without  atmosphere,  brilliant  and 
clear, 

Yet  doom'd,  like  the  moon,  with  no  being  to  cheer 
The  bright  barren  waste  of  her  mind. 

But  rather  than  sit  like  a  statue  so  still 

When  the  rain  made  her  mansion  a  pound, 
Up  and  down  would  she  go,  like  the  sails  of  a  mill, 
And  pat  every  stair,  like  a  woodpecker's  bill, 
From  the  tiles  of  the  roof  to  the  ground. 

One  morn,  as  the  maid  from  her  casement  inclined, 
Passed  a  youth  with  a  frame  in  his  hand. 

The  casement  she  closed — not  the  eye  of  her  mind ; 

For,  do  all  she  could,  no,  she  could  not  be  blind ; 
Still  before  her  she  saw  the  youth  stand. 

"  Ah,  what  can  he  do,"  said  the  languishing  maid, 

"  Ah,  what  with  that  frame  can  he  do  V 
And  she  knelt  to  the  goddess  of  Secrets  and  pray'd, 
When  the  youth  pass'd  again,  and  again  he  display'd 
The  frame  and  a  picture  to  view. 

"  Oh,  beautiful  picture  !"  the  fair  Ellen  cried, 

"  I  must  see  thee  again  or  I  die." 
Then  under  her  white  chin  her  bonnet  she  tied, 
And  after  the  youth  and  the  picture  she  hied, 

When  the  youth,  looking  back,  met  her  eye. 

"  Fair  damsel,"  said  he  (and  he  chuckled  the  while), 

"  This  picture  I  see  you  admire  : 
Then  take  it,  I  pray  you,  perhaps  'twill  beguile 
Some  moments  of  sorrow  (nay,  pardon  my  smile) ; 

Or  at  least  keep  you  home  by  the  fire." 


72  WASHINGTON     ALLSTON. 

Then  Ellen  the  gift  with  delight  and  surprise 
From  the  cunning  young  stripling  received. 
But  she  knew  not  the  poison  that  enter'd  her  eyes, 
When,  sparkling  with  rapture,  they  gazed  on  her 
Thus,  alas,  are  fair  maidens  deceived  !      [prize — 

'Twas  a  youth  o'er  the  form  of  a  statue  inclined, 

And  the  sculptor  he  seem-'d  of  the  stone  ; 
Yet  he  languish'd  as  though  for  its  beauty  he  pined, 
And  gazed  as  the  eyes  of  the  statue  so  blind 
Reflected  the  beams  of  his  own. 

'Twas  the  tale  of  the  sculptor  Pygmalion  of  old ; 

Fair  Ellen  remember'd  and  sigh'd  ; 
"  Ah,  couldst  thou  but  lift  from  that  marble  so  cold, 
Thine  eyes  too  imploring,  thy  arms  should  enfold, 

And  press  me  this  day  as  thy  bride." 

She  said  :  when,  behold,  from  the  canvass  arose 

The  youth,  and  he  stepp'd  from  the  frame  : 
With  a  furious  transport  his  arms  did  enclose 
The  love-plighted  Ellen  :  and,  clasping,  he  froze 
The  blood  of  the  maid  with  his  flame  ! 

She  turn'd  and  beheld  on  each  shoulder  a  wing. 

"  Oh,  heaven !"  cried  she,  "  who  art  thou  V  [ring, 
From  the  roof  to  the  ground  did  his  fierce  answer 
As,  frowning,  he  thunder'd  "  I  am  the  PAINT-KING! 

And  mine,  lovely  maid,  thou  art  now  !" 

Then  high  from  the  ground  did  the  grim  monster  lift 

The  loud-screaming  maid  like  a  blast ; 
And  he  sped  through  the  air  like  a  meteor  swift, 
While  the  clouds,  wand'ring  by  him,  did  fearfully 
To  the  right  and  the  left  as  he  pass'd.  [drift 

Now  suddenly  sloping  his  hurricane  flight, 

With  an  eddying  whirl  he  descends ; 
The  air  all  below  him  becomes  black  as  night, 
And  the  ground  where  he  treads,  as  if  moved  with 
affright, 

Like  the  surge  6f  the  Caspian  bends. 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON.  73 

"I  am  here!"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  thundering 

At  the  gates  of  a  mountainous  cave  ;        [knock'd 

The  gates  open  flew,  as  by  magic  unlock'd, 

While  the  peaks  of  the  mount,  reeling  to  and  fro, 

Like  an  island  of  ice  on  the  wave.  [rock'd 

"  Oh,  mercy !"  cried  Ellen,  and  swoon'd  in  his  arms, 
But  the  PAINT-KING  he  scoffd  at  her  pain. 

"  Prithee,  love,"  said  the  monster,  "  what  mean  thess 
alarms  ?" 

She  hears  not,  she  sees  not  the  terrible  charms, 
That  work  her  to  horror  again. 

She  opens  her  lids,  but  no  longer  her  eyes 
Behold  the  fair  youth  she  would  woo ; 

Now  appears  the  PAINT-KING  in  his  natural  guise  ; 

His  face,  like  a  palette  of  villanous  dyes, 
Black  and  white,  red  and  yellow,  and  blue. 

On  the  scull  of  a  Titan,  that  Heaven  defied, 

Sat  the  fiend,  like  the  grim  giant  Gog, 
While  aloft  to  his  mouth  a  huge  pipe  he  applied, 
Twice  as  big  as  the  Eddystone  lighthouse,  descried 
As  it  looms  through  an  easterly  fog. 

And  anon,  as  he  puff'd  the  vast  volumes,  were  seen, 

In  horrid  festoons  on  the  wall, 
Legs  and  arms,  heads  and  bodies  emerging  between, 
Like  the  drawing-room  grim  of  the  Scotch  Sawney 

By  the  devil  dress'd  out  for  a  ball.  [Beane, 

"  Ah  me !"  cried  the  damsel,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  Must  I  hang  on  these  walls  to  be  dried  V   [seat, 
"  Oh,  no !"  said  the  fiend,  while  he  sprung  from  his 
"  A  far  nobler  fortune  thy  person  shall  meet ; 
Into  paint  will  I  grind  thee,  my  bride !" 

Then  seizing  the  maid  by  her  dark  auburn  hair, 

An  oil  jug  he  plunged  her  within. 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  with  the  shrieks  of  flespair, 
Did  Ellen  in  torment  convulse  the  dun  air, 

All  covered  with  oil  to  the  chin. 
G 


74  WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 

On  the  morn  of  the  eighth,  on  a  huge  sable  stone, 

Then  Ellen,  all  reeking,  he  laid ; 
With  a  rock  for  his  muller  he  crush'd  every  bone, 
But,  though  ground  to  jelly,  still,  still  did  she  groan, 

For  life  had  forsook  not  the  maid. 

Now  reaching  his  palette,  with  masterly  care 

Each  tint  on  its  surface  he  spread; 
The  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  the  brown  of  her  hair, 
And  the  pearl  and  the  white  of  her  forehead  so  fair, 

And  her  lips'  and  her  cheeks'  rosy  red. 

Then,  stamping  his  foot,  did  the  monster  exclaim, 

"  Now  I  brave,  cruel  Fairy,  thy  scorn !" 
When  lo  !  from  a  chasm  wide-yawning  there  came 
A  light  tiny  chariot  of  rose-colour'd  flame, 
By  a  team  of  ten  glow-worms  upborne. 

Enthroned  in  the  midst  on  an  emerald  bright, 

Fair  Geraldine  sat  without  peer  ; 
Her  robe  was  a  gleam  of  the  first  blush  of  light, 
And  her  mantle  the  fleece  of  a  noon-cloud  white, 

And  a  beam  of  the  moon  was  her  spear. 

In  an  accent  that  stole  on  the  still  charmed  air 

Like  the  first  gentle  language  of  EveT 
Thus  spake  from  her  chariot  the  fairy  so  fair : 
"  I  come  at  thy  call,  but,  oh  Paint-King,  beware, 
Beware  if  again  you  deceive." 

"  'Tis  true,"  said  the  monster,  "  thou  queen  of  my 
heart, 

Thy  portrait  I  oft  have  essay'd ; 
Yet  ne'er  to  the  canvass  could  I  with  my  art 
The  least  of  thy  wonderful  beauties  impart; 

And  my  failure  with  scorn  you  repaid. 

"  Now  I  swear  by  the  light  of  the  Comet-King'&tail!" 

And  he  tower'd  with  pride  as  he  spoke, 
"  If  again  with  these  magical  colours  I  fail, 
The  crater  of  Etna  shall  hence  be  my  jail, 
And  my  food  shall  be  sulphur  and  smoke. 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  75 

"  But  if  I  succeed,  then,  oh,  fair  Geraldine  ! 

Thy  promise  with  justice  I  claim, 
And  thou,  queen  of  fairies,  shalt  ever  be  mine, 
The  bride  of  my  bed  ;  and  thy  portrait  divine 

Shall  fill  all  the  earth  with  my  fame." 

He  spake  ;  when,  behold,  the  fair  Geraldine's  form 
On  the  canvass  enchantingly  glow'd ; 

His  touches — they  flew  like  the  leaves  in  a  storm  ; 

And  the  pure  pearly  white  and  the  carnation  warm 
Contending  in  harmony  flow'd. 

And  now  did  the  portrait  a  twin-sister  seem 

To  the  figure  of  Geraldine  fair : 
With  the  same  sweet  expression  did  faithfully  teem 
Each  muscle,  each  feature  ;  in  short,  not  a  gleam 

Was  lost  of  her  beautiful  hair. 

'Twas  the  fairy  herself !  but  alas !  her  blue  eyes 

Still  a  pupil  did  ruefully  lack ; 
And  who  shall  describe  the  terrific  surprise 
That  seized  the  PAINT-KING  when,  behold,  he  descries 

Not  a  speck  on  his  palette  of  black ! 

"  I  am  lost !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  shook  like  a 
leaf; 

When,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  ground, 
He  saw  the  lost  pupils  of  Ellen  with  grief 
In  the  jaws  of  a  mouse,  and  the  sly  little  thief 

Whisk  away  from  his  sight  with  a  bound. 

"  I  am  lost !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  fell  like  a  stone ; 

Then  rising,  the  fairy,  in  ire, 
With  a  touch  of  her  finger  she  loosen'd  her  zone 
(While  the  limbs  on  the  wall  gave  a  terrible  groan), 

And  she  swelled  to  a  column  of  fire. 

Her  spear  now  a  thunder-bolt  flash'd  in  the  air, 

And  sulphur  the  vault  fill'd  around  : 
She  smote  the  grim  monster ;  and  now  by  the  hair, 
High-lifting,  she  hurl'd  him  in  speechless  despair 

Down  the  depths  of  the  chasm  profound. 


76  WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 

Then  over  the  picture  thrice  waving  her  spear, 

"  Come  forth  !"  said  the  good  Geraldine  ; 
When,  behold,  from  the  canvass  descending,  appear 
Fair  Ellen,  in  person  more  lovely  than  e'er, 
With  grace  more  than  ever  divine  ! 


BOSALIE. 

OH,  pour  upon  my  soul  again 
That  sad,  unearthly  strain, 

That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain ; 

Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 

As  if  some  melancholy  star 

Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs 
And  dropped  them  from  the  skies. 

No — never  came  from  aught  below 

This  melody  of  wo, 
That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow 
As  from  a  thousand  gushing  springs 
Unknown  before ;  that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light — if  light  it  be — 

That  veils  the  world  I  see. 

For  all  I  see  around  me  wears 
The  hue  of  other  spheres  ; 
And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I  breathe. 
Oh,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath, 
Can  mould  a  sadness  like  to  this — 
So  like  angelic  bliss. 

So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day 
When  the  last  lingering  ray 

Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play — 

So  thought  the  gentle  Rosalie 

As  on  her  maiden  revery 

First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 
In  music  to  her  soul. 


RICHARD    H.    DANA.  77 


RICHARD  H.  DANA. 

MURDER    OF    A    SPANISH    LADY   BY    A    PIRATE. 

A  sound  is  in  the  Pyrenees  ! 

Whirling  and  dark,  comes  roaring  down 

A  tide,  as  of  a  thousand  seas, 

Sweeping  both  cowl  and  crown. 
On  field  and  vineyard  thick  and  red  it  stood. 
Spain's  streets  and  palaces  are  full  of  blood ; 

And  wrath  and  terror  shake  the  land  ; 

The  peaks  shine  clear  in  watchfire  lights ; 

Soon  comes  the  tread  of  that  stout  band — 

Bold  Arthur  and  his  knights. 
Awake  ye,  Merlin  !     Hear  the  shout  from  Spain ! 
The  spell  is  broke  !    Arthur  is  come  again ! 

Too  late  for  thee,  thou  young,  fair  bride ; 

The  lips  are  cold,  the  brow  is  pale, 

That  thou  didst  kiss  in  love  and  pride. 

He  cannot  hear  thy  wail,  [sound — 

Whom  thou  didst  lull  with  fondly  murmur'd 
His  couch  is  cold  and  lonely  in  the  ground. 

He  fell  for  Spain— her  Spain  no  more  ; 

For  he  was  gone  who  made  it  dear  ; 

And  she  would  seek  some  distant  shore, 

At  rest  from  strife  and  fear, 
And  wait  amid  her  sorrows  till  the  day 
His  voice  of  love  should  call  her  thence  away. 

Lee  feign'd  him  grieved,  and  bow'd  him  low. 

'T would  joy  his  heart  could  he  but  aid 

So  good  a  lady  in  her  wo, 

He  meekly,  smoothly  said. 
With  wealth  and  servants  she  is  soon  aboard, 
And  that  white  steed  she  rode  beside  her  lord. 
09 


78  RICHARD   H.   DANA. 

The  sun  goes  down  upon  the  sea ; 

The  shadows  gather  round  her  home. 

"  How  like  a  pall  are  ye  to  me  ! 

My  home,  how  like  a  tomb  ! 
Oh  !  blow,  ye  flowers  of  Spain,  above  his  head  : 
Ye  will  not  blow  o'er  me  when  I  am  dead." 

And  now  the  stars  are  burning  bright ; 

Yet  still  she  looks  towards  the  shore, 

Beyond  the  waters  black  in  night. 

"  I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more ! 
Ye're  many,  waves,  yet  lonely  seems  your  flow, 
And  I'm  alone — scarce  know  1  where  I  go." 

Sleep,  sleep,  thou  sad  one,  on  the  sea ! 

The  wash  of  waters  lulls  thee  now  ; 

His  arm  no  more  will  pillow  thee, 

Thy  hand  upon  his  brow. 
He  is  not  near,  to  hush  thee  or  to  save. 
The  ground  is  his,  the  sea  must  be  thy  grave. 

The  moon  comes  up,  the  night  goes  on. 

Why  in  the  shadow  of  the  mast, 

Stands  that  dark,  thoughtful  man  alone  ? 

Thy  pledge,  man  ;  keep  it  fast ! 
Bethink  thee  of  her  youth  and  sorrows,  Lee  : 
Helpless  alone— and  then  her  trust  in  thee  ! 

When  told  the  hardships  thou  hadst  borne, 

Her  words  were  to  thee  like  a  charm. 

With  uncheer'd  grief  her  heart  is  worn. 

Thou  wilt  not  do  her  harm  ! 
He  looks  out  on  the  sea  that  sleeps  in  light, 
And  growls  an  oath :  "  It  is  too  still  to-night !" 

He  sleeps  ;  but  dreams  of  massy  gold, 
And  heaps  of  pearl.     He  stretch'd  his  hands. 
He  hears  a  voice  :  "  111  man,  withhold." 
A  pale  one  near  him  stands  : 

Her  breath  comes  deathly  cold  upon  his  cheek ; 

Her  touch  is  cold.    He  wakes  with  piercing  shriek. 


RICHARD   H.    DANA.  79 

He  wakes  ;  but  no  relentings  wake 

Within  his  angry,  restless  soul. 

"  What,  shall  a  dream  Matt's  purpose  shake  * 

The  gold  will  make  all  whole. 
Thy  merchant  trade  had  nigh  unmann'd  thee,  lad ! 
What,  balk  thy  chance  because  a  woman's  sad  T' 

He  cannot  look  on  her  mild  eye — 

Her  patient  words  his  spirit  quell. 

Within  that  evil  heart  there  lie 

The  hates  and  fears  of  hell. 
His  speech  is  short ;  he  wears  a  surly  brow. 
There's  none  will  hear  her  shriek.    What  fear  ye 
now? 

The  workings  of  the  soul  ye  fear ; 

Ye  fear  the  power  that  goodness  hath  ; 

Ye  fear  the  Unseen  One,  ever  near, 

Walking  his  ocean  path. 
From  out  the  silent  void  there  comes  a  cry  : 
"  Vengeance  is  mine !     Lost  man,  thy  doom  is 
nigh!" 

Nor  dread  of  ever-during  wo, 

Nor  the  sea's  awful  solitude, 

Can  make  thee,  wretch,  thy  crime  forego. 

Then,  bloody  hand— to  blood ! 
The  scud  is  driving  wildly  over  head  ; 
The  stars  bum  dim ;  the  ocean  moans  its  dead. 

Moan  for  the  living — moan  our  sins — 

The  wrath  of  man,  more  fierce  than  thine. 

Hark !  still  thy  waves !     The  work  begins  : 

He  makes  the  deadly  sign. 

The  crew  glide  down  like  shadows.     Eye  and  hand 
Speak  fearful  meanings  through  that  silent  band. 

They're  gone.     The  helmsman  stands  alone, 
And  one  leans  idly  o'er  the  bow. 
Still  as  a  tomb  the  ship  keeps  on ; 
Nor  sound  nor  stirring  now. 


80  RICHARD   H.    DANA. 

Hush,  hark !  as  from  the  centre  of  the  deep, 
Shrieks  !  fiendish  yells  !    They  stab  them  in  their 
sleep. 

The  scream  of  rage,  the  groan,  the  strife, 
The  blow,  the  gasp,  the  horrid  cry, 
The  panting,  stifled  prayer  for  life, 
The  dying's  heaving  sigh,  [glare, 

The  murderer's  curse,  the  dead  man's  fix'd,  still 
And  Fear's,  and  Death's  cold  sweat — they  all  are 
there  ! 

On  pale,  dead  men,  on  burning  cheek, 
On  quick,  fierce  eyes,  brows  hot  and  damp, 
On  hands  that  with  the  warm  blood  reek, 
Shines  the  dim  cabin  lamp. 

Lee  look'd.    "  They  sleep  so  sound,"  he  laughing 
said, 

"  They'll  scarcely  wake  for  mistress  or  for  maid." 

A  crash !     They've  forced  the  door  ;  and  then 
One  long,  long,  shrill,  and  piercing  scream 
Comes  thrilling  through  the  growl  of  men. 
'Tis  hers  !     Oh  God,  redeem  [child ! 

From  worse  than  death  thy  suffering,  helpless 
That  dreadful  cry  again — sharp,  sharp,  and  wild ! 

It  ceased.     With  speed  o'  th'  lightning's  flash, 
A  loose-robed  form,  with  streaming  hair, 
Shoots  by.     A  leap !  a  quick,  short  splash  ! 
Tis  gone !    There's  nothing  there  ! 

The  waves  have  swept  away  the  bubbling  tide. 

Bright-crested  waves,  how  proudly  on  ye  ride  ! 

She's  sleeping  in  her  silent  cave, 

Nor  hears  the  stern,  loud  roar  above, 

Or  strife  of  man  on  land  or  wave. 

Young  thing  !  thy  home  of  love 
Thou  soon  hast  reach'd !     Fair,  unpolluted  thing, 
They  harm'd  thee  not !    Was  dying  suffering  ? 


RICHARD    H.   DANA.  81 

Oh,  no  !    To  live  when  joy  was  dead  ; 

To  go  with  one,  lone,  pining  thought — 

To  mournful  love  thy  being  wed — 

Feeling  what  death  had  wrought ; 
To  live  the  child  of  wo,  yet  shed  no  tear, 
Bear  kindness,  and  yet  share  no  joy  nor  fear ; 

To  look  on  man,  and  deem  it  strange 
That  he  on  things  of  earth  should  brood, 
When  all  its  throng'd  and  busy  range 
To  thee  was  solitude — 

Oh,  this  was  bitterness  !     Death  came  and  press'd 
Thy  wearied  lids,  and  brought  thy  sick  heart  rest. 


THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE. 
HUSBAND  and  wife !     No  converse  now  ye  hold, 
As  once  ye  did  in  your  young  days  of  love, 
On  its  alarms,  its  anxious  hours,  delays, 
Its  silent  meditations,  its  glad  hopes, 
Its  fears,  impatience,  quiet  sympathies  ; 
Nor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and  bliss 
Full,  certain,  and  possess'd.     Domestic  cares 
Call  you  not  now  together.     Earnest  talk 
On  what  your  children  may  be,  moves  you  not. 
Ye  lie  in  silence,  and  an  awful  silence  ; 
'Tis  not  like  that  in  which  ye  rested  once 
Most  happy — silence  eloquent,  when  heart 
With  heart  held  speech,  and  your  mysterious  frames, 
Harmonious,  sensitive,  at  every  beat 
Touch'd  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

Stillness  profound, 

Insensible,  unheeding,  folds  you  round  ; 
And  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  seal'd  you  in. 
Away  from  all  the  living,  here  ye  rest : 
In  all  the  nearness  of  the  narrow  tomb, 
Yet  feel  ye  not  each  other's  presence  now. 
Dread  fellowship !  together,  yet  alone. 


82  RICHARD   H.   DANA. 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then,  Love  ? 
And  doth  death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 
Commingling  spirits  ?    Are  thoughts  that  know  no 

bounds. 

But,  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  searching  out 
The  eternal  Mind— the  Father  of  all  thought- 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb  ] 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  th'  illuminate  realms 
Of  uncreated  light  have  visited  and  lived  ? 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendour  of  that  throne, 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand  the  veil  of  flesh 
Lifting,  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  reveal'd 
Jn  glory  1  throne,  before  which  even  now 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down 
Rejoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed  ? 
Souls  that  Thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful,  unseen  presence — are  they  quenched, 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not,  as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  * 

And  with  our  frames  do  perish  all  our  loves  ? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root  and  put  forth  buds, 
And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair  unconscious  flowers  ? 
Are  thoughts  and  passions  that  to  the  tongue  give 

speech, 

And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies, 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance- 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents  ?  no  more  ? 
To  live  in  it,  and  when  that  dies,  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  flame  ? 

Oh,  listen,  man ! 

A  voice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"    Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls :  according  harps, 


RICHARD    H.    DANA.  »3 

By  angel  fingers  touch'd  when  the  mild  stars 

Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 

The  song  of  our  great  immortality  : 

Thick  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 

The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 

Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

Oh,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits  ;  drink  it  in 

From  all  the  air !     Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 

'Tis  floating  midst  day's  setting  glories ;  Night, 

Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 

Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  : 

Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve, 

All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 

As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touch'd 

By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 

Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 

The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 

Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 

To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

Why  is  it  that  I  linger  round  this  tomb  ? 
WThat  holds  it  ?     Dust  that  cumber'd  those  I  mourn. 
They  shook  it  off,  and  laid  aside  earth's  robes, 
And  put  on  those  of  light.     They're  gone  to  dwell 
In  love — their  God's  and  angels'.     Mutual  love, 
That  bound  them  here,  no  longer  needs  a  speech 
For  full  communion ;  nor  sensations  strong, 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  strive  in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind  in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that  rise  in  each, 
By  natures  new,  impart  themselves,  though  silent. 
Each  quick'ning  sense,  each  throb  of  holy  love, 
Affections  sanctified,  and  the  full  glow 
Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden  one, 
By  union  all  mysterious,  thrill  and  live 
In  both  immortal  frames  :  Sensation  all, 
And  thought,  pervading,  mingling  sense  and  thought  I 
Ye  pair'd,  yet  one !  wrapped  in  a  consciousness 
Twofold,  yet  single — this  is  love,  this  life  ! 


84  RICHARD    H.    DANA. 

Why  call  we,  then,  the  square-built  monument, 
The  upright  column,  and  the  low-laid  slab, 
Tokens  of  death,  memorials  of  decay  1 
Stand  in  this  solemn,  still  assembly,  man, 
And  learn  thy  proper  nature  ;  for  thou  see'st, 
In  these  shaped  stones  and  letter'd  tables,  figures 
Of  life  :  More  are  they  to  thy  soul  than  those 
Which  he  who  talk'd  on  Sinai's  mount  with  God 
Brought  to  the  old  Judeans — types  are  these, 
Of  thine  eternity. 

I  thank  thee.  Father, 

That  at  this  simple  grave,  on  which  the  dawn 
Is  breaking,  emblem  of  that  day  which  hath 
No  close,  Thou  kindly  unto  my  dark  mind 
Hast  sent  a  sacred  light,  and  that  away 
From  this  green  hillock,  whither  I  had  come 
In  sorrow,  Thou  art  leading  me  in  joy. 


DAYBREAK. 

"  The  Pilgrim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose  win 
dow  opened  towards  the  sun  rising:  the  name  of  the  chamher 
was  Peace ;  where  he  slept  till  break  of  day,  and  then  he  awoke 
and  sang."—  The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

Now,  brighter  than  the  host  that  all  night  long, 

In  fiery  armour,  up  the  heavens  high 

Stood  watch,  thou  comest  to  wait  the  morning's  song, 

Thou  comest  to  tell  me  day  again  is  nigh. 

Star  of  the  dawning,  cheerful  is  thine  eye ; 

And  yet  in  the  broad  day  it  must  grow  dim. 

Thou  seem'st  to  look  on  me,  as  asking  why 

My  mourning  eyes  with  silent  tears  do  swim ; 

Thou  bid'st  me  turn  to  God,  and  seek  my  rest  in  Him. 

"  Canst  thou  grow  sad,"  thou  say'st,  "  as  earth  grows 
And  sigh,  when  little  birds  begin  discourse     [bright  ? 
In  quick,  low  voices,  ere  the  streaming  light 
Pours  on  their  nests,  as  sprung  from  day's  fresh 
source  I 


RICHARD    H.   DANA.  85 

With  creatures  innocent  them  must  perforce 
A  sharer  be.  if  that  thine  heart  be  pure. 
And  holy  hour  like  this,  save  sharp  remorse, 
Of  ills  and  pains  of  life  must  be  the  cure, 
And  breathe  in  kindred  calm,  and  teach  thee  to  en 
dure," 

I  feel  its  calm.    But  there's  a  sombrous  hue 
Along  that  eastern  cloud  of  deep,  dull  red ; 
Nor  glitters  yet  the  cold  and  heavy  dew  ; 
And  all  the  woods  and  hilltops  stand  outspread 
With  dusky  lights,  which  warmth  nor  comfort  shed. 
Still — save  the  bird  that  scarcely  lifts  its  song — 
The  vast  world  seems  the  tomb  of  all  the  dead — 
The  silent  city  emptied  of  its  throng, 
And  ended,  all  alike,  grief,  mirth,  love,  hate,  and 
wrong. 

But  wrong,  and  hate,  and  love,  and  grief,  and  mirth 
Will  quicken  soon ;  and  hard,  hot  toil  and  strife, 
With  headlong  purpose,  shake  this  sleeping  earth 
With  discord  strange,  and  all  that  man  calls  life. 
With  thousand  scatter'd  beauties  nature's  rife  ; 
And  airs,  and  woods,  and  streams  breathe  harmonies : 
Man  weds  not  these,  but  taketh  art  to  wife  ; 
Nor  binds  his  heart  with  soft  and  kindly  ties  : 
He,  feverish,  blinded,  lives,  arid,  feverish,  sated,  dies. 

And  'tis  because  man  useth  so  amiss 

Her  dearest  blessings,  Nature  seemeth  sad  ; 

Else  why  should  she  in  such  fresh  hour  as  this 

Not  lift  the  veil,  in  revelation  glad, 

From  her  fair  face  ?     It  is  that  man  is  mad ! 

Then  chide  me  not,  clear  star,  that  I  repine 

When  Nature  grieves  :  nor  deem  this  heart  is  bad. 

Thou  look'st  towards  earth  ;  but  yet  the  heavens  are 

thine, 
While  I  to  earth  am  bound :  When  will  the  heavens 

be  mine  ? 

H 


86  RICHARD    H.    DANA. 

If  man  would  but  his  finer  nature  learn, 
And  not  in  life  fantastic  lose  the  sense 
Of  simpler  things  ;  could  Nature's  features  stern 
Teach  him  be  thoughtful ;  then,  with  soul  intense, 
I  should  not  yearn  for  God  to  take  me  hence, 
But  bear  my  lot,  albeit  in  spirit  bow'd, 
Remembering  humbly  why  it  is,  and  whence  : 
But  when  I  see  cold  man,  of  reason  proud, 
My  solitude  is  sad — I'm  lonely  in  the  crowd. 

But  not  for  this  alone,  the  silent  tear 
Steals  to  mine  eyes,  while  looking  on  the  morn, 
Nor  for  this  solemn  hour :  fresh  life  is  near ; 
But  all  my  joys  !  they  died  when  newly  born. 
Thousands  will  wake  to  joy  ;  while  I,  forlorn, 
And,  like  the  stricken  dear,  with  sickly  eye,     [torn; 
Shall  see  them  pass.     Breathe  calm — my  spirit's 
Ye  holy  thoughts,  lift  up  my  soul  on  high !       [nigh. 
Ye  hopes  of  things  unseen,  the  far-oif  world  bring 

And  when  I  grieve,  oh  rather  let  it  be 
That  I,  whom  Nature  taught  to  sit  with  her 
On  her  proud  mountains,  by  her  rolling  sea ; 
"Who,  when  the  winds  are  up,  with  mighty  stir 
Of  woods  and  waters,  feel  the  quick'ning  spur 
To  my  strong  spirit ;  who,  as  mine  own  child, 
Do  love  the  flower,  and  in  the  ragged  bur 
A  beauty  see  :  that  I  this  mother  mild      [and  wild  I 
Should  leave,  and  go  with  care,  and  passions  fierce 

How  suddenly  that  straight  and  glittering  shaft 
Shot  'thwart  the  earth !     In  crown  of  living  fire 
Up  comes  the  Day !     As  if  they  conscious  quaff 'd 
The  sunny  flood,  hill,  forest,  city,  spire 
Laugh  in  the  wakening  light.    Go,  vain  Desire ! 
The  dusky  lights  have  gone  ;  go  thou  thy  way  ! 
And  pining  Discontent,  like  them,  expire  ! 
Be  call'd  my  chamber,  PEACE,  when  ends  the  day ; 
And  let  me  with  the  dawn,  like  PILGRIM,  sing  and 
pray! 


NATHANIEL  P.    WILLIS.  87 

NATHANIEL  P.  WILLIS. 

THE    BAPTISM    OF    CHRIST. 

IT  was  a  green  spot  in  the  wilderness, 
Touch'd  by  the  river  Jordan.     The  dark  pine 
Never  had  dropp'd  its  tassels  on  the  moss 
Tufting  the  leaning  bank,  nor  on  the  grass 
Of  the  broad  circle  stretching  evenly 
To  the  straight  larches,  had  a  heavier  foot 
Than  the  wild  heron's  trodden.     Softly  in 
Through  a  long  aisle  of  willows,  disi  and  cool, 
Stole  the  clear  waters  with  their  muffled  feet, 
And  hushing  as  they  spread  into  the  light, 
Circled  the  edges  of  the  pebbled  tank 
Slowly,  then  rippled  through  the  woods  away. 

Hither  had  come  th'  apostle  of  the  wild, 

Winding  the  river's  course.     Twas  near  the  flush 

Of  eve,  and,  with  a  multitude  around, 

Who  from  the  cities  had  come  out  to  hear, 

He  stood  breast  high  amid  the  running  stream, 

Baptizing  as  the  Spirit  gave  him  power. 

His  simple  raiment  was  of  camel's  hair, 

A  leathern  girdle  close  about  his  loins, 

His  beard  unshorn,  and  his  daily  meat 

The  locust  and  wild  honey  of  the  wood  ; 

But  like  the  face  of  Moses  on  the  mount 

Shone  his  rapt  countenance,  and  in  his  eye 

Burn'd  the  mild  fire  of  love,  as  he  spoke 

The  ear  lean'd  to  him,  and  persuasion  swift 

To  the  chain'd  spirit  of  the  listener  stole. 

Silent  upon  the  green  and  sloping  bank 
The  people  sat,  and  while  the  leaves  were  shook 
With  the  birds  dropping  early  to  their  nests, 
And  the  gray  eve  came  on,  within  their  hearts 
They  mused  if  he  were  Christ.    The  rippling  stream 


88  NATHANIEL  P.    WILLIS. 

Still  turn'd  its  silver  courses  from  his  breast 
As  he  divined  their  thought.     "  I  but  baptize," 
He  said,  "with  water ;  but  there  coraeth  One 
The  latchet  of  whose  shoes  I  may  not  dare 
Even  to  unloose.     He  will  baptize  with  fire 
And  with  the  Holy  Ghost."    And  lo  !  while  yet 
The  words  were  on  his  lips,  he  raised  his  eyes, 
And  on  the  bank  stood  Jesus.     He  had  laid 
His  raiment  off,  and  with  his  loins  alone 
Girt  with  a  mantle,  and  his  perfect  limbs, 
In  their  angelic  slightness,  meek  and  bare, 
He  waited  to  go  in.     But  John  forbade, 
And  hurried  to  his  feet  and  stay'd  him  there, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  Master !     I  have  need  of  thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine  /"     And  Jesus,  with  a  smile 
Of  heavenly  sadness,  met  his  earnest  looks, 
And  answered,  "  Suffer  it  to  be  so  now  ; 
For  thus  it  doth  become  me  to  fulfil 
All  righteousness."    And,  leaning  to  the  stream, 
He  took  around  him  the  apostle's  arm, 
And  drew  him  gently  to  the  midst. 

The  wood 

Was  thick  with  the  dim  twilight  as  they  came 
Up  from  the  water.     With  his  clasp'd  hands 
Laid  on  his  breast,  th1  apostle  silently 
Followed  his  Master's  steps  ;  when  lo  !  a  light, 
Bright  as  the  tenfold  glory  of  the  sun, 
Yet  lambent  as  the  softly  burning  stars, 
Enveloped  them,  and  from  the  heavens  away 
Parted  the  dim  blue  ether  like  a  veil ; 
And  as  a  voice,  fearful  exceedingly, 
Broke  from  the  midst,  "  THIS  is  MY  MUCH-LOVED  SON, 
IN  WHOM  I  AM  WELL  PLEASED,"  a  snow-white  dove, 
Floating  upon  its  wings,  descended  through, 
And,  shedding  a  swift  music  from  its  plumes, 
Circled  and  flutter'd  to  the  Saviour's  breast. 


NATHANIEL   P.    WILLIS.  89 


SPRING. 

"  L'onda  del  mar  divisa 
Bagna  la  valle  e  1'monte, 
Va  passegiera 
In  fiume, 
Va  prigionera 
In  fonte, 

Mormora  sempre  e  geme 
Fin  che  non  torna  al  mar." 

METASTASIO. 

THE  Spring  is  here,  the  delicate-footed  May, 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers, 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 
Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours  : 

A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 

Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods  ; 

And  Nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 
Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods  : 

Yet  even  there  a  restless  thought  will  steal, 

To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 

Strange,  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon, 
The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet, 

The  turning  to  the  light  leaves  in  June, 
And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet : 

Strange,  that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There's  no  contentment  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream  ; 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss, 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream ; 

Bird-like,  the  prisoned  soul  will  lift  its  eye, 

And  pine  till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 
H2 


90  NATHANIEL   P.    WILLIS. 


APRIL. 

"  A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye, 

Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky." 

WORDSWORTH. 

I  HAVE  found  violets.     April  hath  come  on, 
And  the  cool  winds  feel  softer,  and  the  rain 
Falls  in  the  beaded  drops  of  summer  time. 
You  may  hear  birds  at  morning,  and  at  eve 
The  tame  dove  lingers  till  the  twilight  falls, 
Cooing  upon  the  eaves,  and  drawing  in 
His  beautiful  bright  neck,  and,  from  the  hills, 
A  murmur  like  the  hoarseness  of  the  sea 
Tells  the  release  of  waters,  and  the  earth 
Sends  up  a  pleasant  smell,  and  the  dry  leaves 
Are  lifted  by  the  grass  ;  and  so  I  know 
That  Nature,  with  her  delicate  ear,  hath  heard 
The  dropping  of  the  velvet  foot  of  Spring. 
Take  of  my  violets  !     I  found  them  where 
The  liquid  South  stole  o'er  them,  on  a  bank 
That  leaned  to  running  water.     There's  to  me 
A  daintiness  about  these  early  flowers 
That  touches  me  like  poetry.     They  blow 
With  such  a  simple  loveliness  among 
The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  and  breathe  out 
Their  lives  so  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 
Whose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world. 
I  love  to  go  in  the  capricious  days 
Of  April  and  hunt  violets  ;  when  the  rain 
Is  in  the  blue  cups  trembling,  and  they  nod 
So  gracefully  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind. 
It  may  be  deem'd  too  idle,  but  the  young 
Read  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  heaven, 
And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry.     Go  out ! 
Ye  spirits  of  habitual  unrest, 
And  read  it  when  the  "  fever  of  the  world" 
Hath  made  your  hearts  impatient,  and,  if  life 


NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS.  91 

Hath  yet  one  spring  unpoisoned,  it  will  be 
Like  a  beguiling  music  to  its  flow, 
And  you  will  no  more  wonder  that  I  love 
To  hunt  for  violets  in  the  April  time. 


THE    BELFRY    PIGEON. 

"  Mine  eyes  are  sick  of  this  perpetual  flow 
Of  people,  and  my  heart  of  one  sad  thought." 

SHELLEY. 

ON  the  cross  beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well.  t 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air: 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell- 
Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon — 
When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon — 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light — 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night" — 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 


92  JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE. 

Or  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 
Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 

A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men  ; 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 

Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  thy  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I  would  that  in  such  wings  of  gold 

I  could  my  weary  heart  upfold  ; 

I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved 

(Unloving  as  I  am  unloved), 

And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 

Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe  ; 

And  never  sad  with  others'  sadness, 

And  never  glad  with  others'  gladness, 

Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 

And,  lapp'd  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

JOURNEY  OF  THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 

THE  goblin  marked  his  monarch  well ; 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bowed  him  low, 
Then  plucked  a  crimson  colen-bell, 

And  turned  him  round  in  act  to  go. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN   DRAKE.  93 

ITie  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has  lost  its  power, 
And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high, 

For  many  a  sore  and  weary  hour. 
Through  dreary  beds  of  tangled  fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and  dern, 
Over  the  grass  and  through  the  brake, 
Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake  ; 

Now  o'er  the  violet's  azure  flush 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood ; 

And  now  he  thrids  the  bramble  bush, 
Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood. 
He  has  leaped  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the  brier, 
He  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the  mire, 
Till  his  spirits  sank,  and  his  limbs  grew  weak, 
And  the  red  waxed  fainter  in  his  cheek. 
He  had  fallen  to  the  ground  outright, 

For  rugged  and  dim  was  his  onward  track, 
But  there  came  a  spotted  toad  in  sight, 

And  he  laughed  as  he  jumped  upon  her  back : 
He  bridled  her  mouth  with  a  silk-weed  twist ; 

He  lashed  her  sides  with  an  osier  thong ; 
And  now,  through  evening's  dewy  mist, 

With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  along, 
Till  the  mountain's  magic  verge  is  pass'd, 
And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reached  at  last. 

Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam, 
Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream, 
The  wave  is  clear,  the  beach  is  bright 

With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones ; 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans ; 
And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is  heard  the  splash  of  the  sturgeon's  leap, 
And  the  bend  of  his  graceful  bow  is  seen — 
A  glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 
Spanning  the  wave  of  burnished  blue, 
And  dripping  with  gems  of  the  river  dew. 


94  JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE. 

The  elfin  cast  a  glance  around, 

As  he  lighted  down  from  his  courser  toad, 
Then  round  his  breast  his  wings  he  wound, 

And  close  to  the  river's  brink  he  strode  ; 
He  sprang  on  a  rock,  he  breathed  a  prayer, 

Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 
Then  tossed  a  tiny  curve  in  air, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters  blue. 

Up  sprung  the  spirits  of  the  waves, 

From  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves, 

With  snail-plate  armour  snatched  in  haste, 

They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid  waste  ; 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 

On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly  prong, 

Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stony  starfish  ride, 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 

Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab  ; 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 

At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings — 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 

And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 

To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 

The  footsteps  of  the  invading  Fay. 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along, 
His  hope  is  high  and  his  limbs  are  strong, 
He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow's  wing, 
And  throws  his  feet  with  a  frog-like  fling ; 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine, 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-beads  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 
But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near, 

To  check  his  course  along  the  tide  ; 
Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career, 

And  hem  him  round  on  every  side  ; 
On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fixed  his  hold, 
The  quad's  long  arms  are  round  him  roll'd, 


JOSEPH    RODMAN   DRAKE.  95 

The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 
And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin  ; 
The  gritty  star  has  rubbed  him  raw, 
And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant  claw ; 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with  pain, 
He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain  ; 
Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight, 
Fairy !  naught  is  left  but  flight. 

He  turned  him  round  and  fled  amain 
With  hurry  and  dash  to  the  beach  again ; 
He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 
And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide. 
The  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 
And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet, 
But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 
To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill. 
They  bade  the  wave  before  him  rise  ; 
They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes, 
And  they  stunned  his  ears  with  the  scallop  stroke, 
With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drumfish  croak. 
Oh !  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 
When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  dogwood  tree  : 
Gashed  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 
He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore ; 
He  blessed  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 
And  he  banned  the  water-goblins'  spite, 
For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moonshine. 
Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 
Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their  might 
At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  Fairy  wight. 

Soon  he  gathered  the  balsam  dew 

From  the  sorrel  leaf  and  the  henbane  bud ; 
Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 

And  with  cobweb  lint  he  stanched  the  blood. 
The  mild  west  wind  was  soft  and  low, 
It  cooled  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow, 
And  he  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot, 
As  he  drank  the  juice  of  the  cal'mus  root ; 


96  JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE. 

And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore, 
As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 

Wrapped  in  musing  stands  the  sprite  : 
'Tis  in  the  middle  wane  of  night, 

His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 
But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 

Ere  dawning  mounts  her  beamy  car, 
And  rolls  her  chariot  wheels  of  light ; 
And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land, 
He  must  work  with  a  human  hand. 

He  cast  a  saddened  look  around, 

But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 
When,  glittering  on  the  shadowed  ground, 

He  saw  a  purple  muscle  shell ; 
Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 
He  heaved  at  the  stern  arid  he  heaved  at  the  bow, 
And  he  pushed  her  over  the  yielding  sand, 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted  land. 
She  was  as  lovely  a  pleasure  boat 

As  ever  fairy  had  paddled  in, 
For  she  glowed  with  purple  paint  without, 

And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within ; 
A  sculler's  notch  in  the  stern  he  made, 
An  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle  blade ; 
Then  sprung  to  his  seat  with  a  lightsome  step, 
And  launched  afar  on  the  calm  blue  deep. 

The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave ; 
They  had  no  power  above  the  wave, 
But  they  heaved  the  billow  before  the  prow, 

And  they  dashed  the  surge  against  her  side, 
And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and  blow, 

Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the  rocking  tide. 
She  wimpled  about  in  the  pale  moonbeam, 
Like  a  feather  that  floats  on  a  wind-tossed  stream ; 
And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  upreared  his  island  back, 


JOSEPH    RODMAN  DRAKE.  97 

And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would  float, 
And  patter  the  water  about  the  boat ; 
But  he  bailed  her  out  with  his  colen-bell, 

And  he  kept  her  trimmed  with  a  wary  tread, 
While  on  every  side  like  lightning  fell 

The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 

Onward  still  he  held  his  way, 

Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moonshine  lay 

Arid  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 

The  brown-backed  sturgeon  slowly  swim  : 

Around  him  were  the  goblin  train  ; 

But  he  sculled  with  all  his  might  and  main, 

And  followed  wherever  the  sturgeon  led. 

Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head ; 

Then  he  dropped  his  paddle  blade, 

And  held  his  colen  goblet  up 

To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup. 

With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin, 

Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 
And,  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 

He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue. 
Instant  as  the  star-fall  light, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  deep  again, 
But  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright, 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 
It  was  a  strange  and  lovely  sight 

To  see  the  puny  goblin  there  ; 
He  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wing  and  sunny  hair, 

Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair, 
Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even 
Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

A  moment,  and  its  lustre  fell ; 

But,  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue, 
He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell 

A  droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew — 


98  JOSEPH   RODMAN    DRAKE. 

Joy  to  thee,  Fay !  thy  task  is  done, 
Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  gem  is  won : 
Cheerily  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 
And  haste  away  to  the  elfin  shore. 


I  SAT  me  down  upon  a  green  bank-side, 
Skirting  the  smooth  edge  of  a  gentle  river, 

Whose  waters  seemed  unwillingly  to  glide, 

Like  parting  friends  who  linger  while  they  sever ; 

Enforced  to  go,  yet  seeming  still  unready, 

Backward  they  wind  their  way  in  many  a  wistful 
eddy. 

Gray  o'er  my  head  the  yellow-xrested  willow 
Ruffled  its  hoary  top  in  the  fresh  breezes, 

Glancing  in  light,  like  spray  on  a  green  billow, 
Or  the  fine  frostwork  which  young  winter  freezes  ', 

When  first  his  power  in  infant  pastime  trying, 

Congeals  sad  autumn's  tears  on  the  dead  branches 
lying. 

From  rocks  around  hung  the  loose  ivy  dangling, 
And  in  the  clefts  sumach  of  liveliest  green, 

Bright  ising-stars  the  little  beach  was  spangling, 
The  gold-cup  sorrel  from  his  gauzy  screen 

Shone  like  a  fairy  crown,  enchased  and  beaded, 

Left  on  some  morn,  when  light  flashed  in  their  eyes 
unheeded. 

The  humbird  shook  his  sun-touch'd  wings  around, 
The  bluefinch  caroll'd  in  the  still  retreat  ; 

The  antic  squirrel  capered  on  the  ground 
Where  lichens  made  a  carpet  for  his  feet  : 

Through  the  transparent  waves,  the  ruddy  minkle 

Shot  up  in  glimmering  sparks  his  red  fin's  tiny  twin- 


WILLIAM    LEGGETT.  99 

There  were  dark  cedars  with  loose  mossy  tresses, 
White  powdered  dog-trees,  and  stiff  hollies  flaunt- 

Gaudy  as  rustics  in  their  May-day  dresses,         [ing 
Blue  pelloret  from  purple  leaves  upslanting 

A  modest  gaze,  like  eyes  of  a  young  maiden 

Shining  beneath  dropp'd  lids  the  evening  of  her 
wedding. 

The  breeze  fresh  springing  from  the  lips  of  morn, 

Kissing  the  leaves,  and  sighing  so  to  lose  'em, 
The  winding  of  the  merry  locust's  horn,          [som : 
The  glad  spring  gushing  from  the  rock's  bare  bo- 
Sweet  sights,  sweet  sounds,  all  sights,  all  sounds  ex 
celling,  [ing. 
Oh !  'twas  a  ravishing  spot  formed  for  a  poet's  dwell- 

And  did  I  leave  thy  loveliness,  to  stand 

Again  in  the  dull  world  of  earthly  blindness  1 

Pained  with  the  pressure  of  unfriendly  hands, 
Sick  of  smooth  looks,  agued  with  icy  kindness  ? 

Left  I  for  this  thy  shades,  where  none  intrude, 

To  prison  wandering  thought  and  mar  sweet  solitude  1 

Yet  I  will  look  upon  thy  face  again, 
My  own  romantic  Bronx,  and  it  will  be 

A  face  more  pleasant  than  the  face  of  men. 
Thy  waves  are  old  companions,  I  shall  see 

A  well-remembered  form  in  each  old  tree, 

And  hear  a  voice  long  loved  in  thy  wild  minstrelsy. 


WILLIAM  LEGGETT. 

A  SACRED  MELODY. 
IF  yon  bright  stars  which  gem  the  night 

Be  each  a  blissful  dwelling  sphere, 
Where  kindred  spirits  reunite, 

Whom  death  has  torn  asunder  here  ; 


100  JOHN    G.  C.  BRAINARD. 

How  sweet  it  were  at  once  to  die, 
And  leave  this  blighted  orb  afar — 

Mixed  soul  with  soul,  to  cleave  the  sky, 
And  soar  away  from  star  to  star. 

But  oh !  how  dark,  how  drear,  how  lone 

Would  seem  the  brightest  world  of  bliss, 
If,  wandering  through  each  radiant  one, 

We  failed  to  find  the  loved  of  this  ! 
If  there  no  more  the  ties  should  twine, 

Which  death's  cold  hand  alone  can  sever, 
Ah !  then  these  stars  in  mockery  shine, 

More  hateful  as  they  shine  for  ever. 

It  cannot  be !  each  hope  and  fear 

That  lights  the  eye  or  clouds  the  brow, 
Proclaims  there  is  a  happier  sphere 

Than  this  bleak  world  that  holds  us  now ! 
There  is  a  voice  which  sorrow  hears, 

When  heaviest  weighs  life's  galling  chain ; 
'Tis  heaven  that  whispers,  "  Dry  thy  tears : 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  meet  again !" 


JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINARD. 

THE    FALL    OF    NIAGARA. 

Labitur  et  labetur. 

THE  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  God  ppur'd  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand," 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front ; 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seem'd  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
"  The  sound  of  many  waters  ;"  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  cent'ries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 


JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINARD.  101 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
Oh !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side ! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar ! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  HIM, 
Who  drown'd  a  world,  and  heap'd  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  1  a  light  wave 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 


MR.  MERRY'S  LAMENT  FOR  "LONG  TOM." 

"  Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore." 

THY  cruise  is  over  now, 

Thou  art  anchor'd  by  the  shore, 
And  never  more  shalt  thou 

Hear  the  storm  around  thee  roar ; 
Death  has  shaken  out  the  sands  of  thy  glass. 
Now  around  thee  sports  the  whale, 
And  the  porpoise  snuffs  the  gale, 
And  the  night-winds  wake  their  wail, 
As  they  pass. 

The  sea-grass  round  thy  bier 
Shall  bend  beneath  the  tide, 
Nor  tell  the  breakers  near 

Where  thy  manly  limbs  abide ; 
But  the  granite  rock  thy  tombstone  shall  be. 
Though  the  edges  of  thy  grave 
Are  the  combings  of  the  wave, 
Yet  unheeded  they  shall  rave 
Over  thee. 

12 


102  JOHN    G.  C.  BHAINARD. 

At  the  piping  of  all  hands, 

When  the  judgment  signal's  spread — 
When  the  islands,  and  the  lands, 

And  the  seas  give  up  their  dead, 
And  the  south  and  the  north  shall  come ; 
When  the  sinner  is  betray'd, 
And  the  just  man  is  afraid, 
Then  Heaven  be  thy  aid, 
Poor  Tom. 


THE   INDIAN    SUMMER. 

WHAT  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves  ? 
Have  they  that  "  green  and  yellow  melancholy" 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of]     Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 
Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms — 
When  the  dread  fever  quits  us — when  the  storms 
Of  the  wild  Equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 
Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  deluge  left  it, 
With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colours  hung 
Upon  the  forest  tops— he  had  not  sigh'd. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  Hunter  now : 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store  : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 
The  bright  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves  ?" 


"The  dead  leaves  strow  the  forest  walk, 
And  wither'd  are  the  pale  wild-flowers ; 

The  frost  hangs  blackening  on  the  stalk, 
The  dewdrops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 


JOHN    G.    C.  BRAINARD.  103 

Gone  are  the  spring's  green  sprouting  bowers, 
Gone  summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  Autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours, 
On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I  learn'd  a  clear  and  wild-toned  note, 

That  rose  and  swell'd  from  yonder  tree  : 
A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat, 

There  perch'd  and  raised  her  song  for  me. 

The  winter  comes,  and  where  is  she  1 
Away — where  summer  wings  will  rove, 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 

Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes  there, 
The  northern  breeze  that  rustles  by, 

Finds  leaves  too  green  and  buds  too  fair  ; 

No  forest-tree  stands  stripp'd  and  bare, 
No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead, 

No  mountain-top,  with  sleety  hair, 
Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 

Go  there  with  all  the  birds,  and  seek 

A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight, 
Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek, 

And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 

I'll  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light, 
And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone — 

See ! — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Feel— that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone." 


104  WILLIAM  GILMORE    SIMMS. 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 

SCENE  FROM  ATALANT1S. 

Scene  changes  to  the  Ship — LEON  reclining  on  a  cushion 
— to  him,  enter  ISABEL. 

Isa.  What  wraps  you  thus,  sweet  brother?  why 

so  sad, 

When  thus,  so  trimly,  speeds  our  swan-like  bark 
Upon  the  placid  waters  1     You  are  sick, 
And  in  your  eye  a  dim  abstraction  lies, 
Lacking  all  sense  ;  and,  as  it  were,  at  search 
For  airy  speculations  in  the  deep. 

Leon.  Why,  thou  art  right :  a  speculation  true, 
For  I  behold  naught  that  may  speak  for  it, 
And  tell  me  whence  it  comes. 

Isa.  What  is't  thou  say'st  ? 

Leon.  Stay  but  a  moment !  as  I  live,  I  heard  it 
Steal  by  me,  like  the  whispers  of  a  lute 
From  thy  own  lattice,  Isabel. 

Isa.  Heard  what  ? 
What  is  it  that  thou  speak'st  of? 

Leon.  A  sound — a  strain, 
Even  as  the  softest  music,  heard  afar, 
At  twilight,  o'er  our  Andalusian  hills, 
From  melancholy  maiden,  by  me  crept, 
But  now,  upon  the  waters.     They  were  tones 
Slight  as  a  spirit's  whisperings  ;  and,  as  far 
As  met  my  sense,  they  had  a  gentle  voice, 
Tremulous  as  an  echo  faintly  made, 
The  replication  of  an  infant's  cry, 
Thrown  back  from  some  rude  mountain. 

Isa.  Thou  dreamest. 
Whence  should  such  music  come  ? 

Leon.  Ay,  where  or  whence, 
But  from  some  green-haired  maiden  of  the  sea  ? 
If  thou  believ'st  me,  Isabel,  'tis  true  ; 
I  heard  it  even  now,  and  syllabled 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS.  105 

Into  familiar  sounds,  that  conjured  up 

My  boyhood's  earliest  dreams :  of  isles,  that  lie 

In  farthest  depths  of  ocean ;  girt  with  all 

Of  natural  wealth  and  splendour — jewell'd  isles — 

Boundless  in  unimaginable  spoils, 

That  earth  is  stranger  to. 

Isa.  Thou  dreamest  still : 
Thy  boyhood's  legends  carry  thee  away. 
Till  thou  forgett'st  the  mighty  difference          [toils, 
'Twixt  those  two  worlds — the  one,  where  nature 
The  other  she  but  dreams  of. 

Leon.  I  dream  not : 

I  heard  it  visibly  to  the  sense,  and  hark ! 
It  comes  again  :  dost  thou  not  hear  it  now? 
List  now,  dear  Isabel. 

Isa.  I  hear  naught. 

Leon.  Surely  I  marked  it  then ;  I  could  not  dream  : 
'Twas  like  the  winds  among  a  bed  of  reeds, 
And  spoke  a  deep,  heart-melancholy  sound, 
That  made  me  sigh  when  I  heard  it. 

Isa.  No  more  ! 

Thou  art  too  led  away  by  idle  thoughts, 
Dear  Leon ;  and,  I  fear  me,  thou  dost  take 
Too  much  the  colour  of  the  passing  cloud, 
Filling  thy  heart  with  shado wings,  that  mislead 
Thy  roving  thoughts,  already  too  much  prone 
To  empty  speculation. 

Leon.  1  said  not  wrong  : 
My  spirit  trick'd  me  not :  my  sense  was  true. 
I  hear  it  now  again.     Far,  far  off,  fine — 
So  delicate,  as  if  some  spirit  form 
Were  for  the  first  time  murmuring  into  life, 
And  this  its  first  complaining.     Hearken  now— 
Nay,  Isabel!  thou  dost  not  longer  doubt— 
Thy  ears  are  traitors  if  they  did  not  feel 
The  music  as  it  came  by  us  but  now. 

Isa.  I  heard  a  murmur  truly,  but  so  slight, 
A  breath  of  the  wind  might  make  it,  or  a  sail 
Drawn  suddenly. 


106  WILLIAM    GILMORE   SIMMS. 

Leon.  Now,  now,  thou  hast  it  there  : 
Thou  dost  not  longer  question.    It  is  there. 

Spirit  sings. 
O'er  the  wide  world  of  ocean 

My  home  is  afar, 
Beyond  its  commotion, 

I  laugh  at  its  war  ; 
Yet  by  destiny  bidden, 

I  cannot  deny, 
All  night  I  have  ridden 

From  my  home  in  the  sky. 

In  the  billow  before  thee 

My  form  is  concealed, 
In  the  breath  that  comes  o'er  thee 

My  thought  is  reveal'd  ; 
Strown  thickly  beneath  me 

The  coral  rocks  grow, 
And  the  waves  that  enwreath  me 

Are  working  thee  wo. 

Leon.  Did'st  hear  the  strain  it  utter'd,  Isabel  ? 

Isa.  All,  all !     It  spoke,  methought,  of  peril  near, 
From  rocks  and  wiles  of  the  ocean :  did  it  not  ? 

Leon.  It  did,  but  idly  !     Here  can  lurk  no  rocks  ; 
For,  by  the  chart  which  now  before  me  lies, 
Thy  own  unpractised  eye  may  well  discern 
The  wide  extent  of  the  ocean — shoreless  all. 
The  land,  for  many  a  league,  to  th'  eastward  hangs, 
And  not  a  point  beside  it. 

Isa.  Wherefore,  then, 
Should  come  this  voice  of  warning1? 

Leon.  From  the  deep  : 
It  hath  its  demons  as  the  earth  and  air, 
All  tributaries  to  the  master-fiend 
That  sets  their  springs  in  motion.     This  is  one, 
That,  doubting  to  mislead  us,  plants  this  wile, 
So  to  divert  our  course,  that  we  may  strike 
The  very  rocks  he  fain  would  warn  us  from. 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS.  107 

Isa.  A  subtle  sprite  :  and,  now  I  think  of  it, 
Dost  thou  remember  the  old  story  told 
By  Diaz  Ortis,  the  lame  mariner, 
Of  an  adventure  in  the  Indian  Seas, 
Where  he  made  one  with  John  of  Portugal, 
Touching  a  woman  of  the  ocean  wave, 
That  swam  beside  the  barque,  and  sang  strange  songs 
Of  riches  in  the  waters  ;  with  a  speech 
So  winning  on  the  senses,  that  the  crew 
Grew  all  infected  with  the  melody ; 
And,  but  for  a  good  father  of  the  church, 
Who  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  offer'd  up 
Befitting  pray'rs,  which  drove  the  fiend  away, 
They  had  been  tempted  by  her  cunning  voice 
To  leap  into  the  ocean. 

Leon.  I  do,  I  do  ! 

And,  at  the  time,  I  do  remember  me, 
I  made  much  mirth  of  the  extravagant  tale, 
As  a  deceit  of  the  reason  :  the  old  man 
Being  in  his  second  childhood,  and  at  fits 
Wild,  as  you  know,  on  other  themes  than  this. 

Isa.  I  never  more  shall  mock  at  marvellous  things, 
Such  strange  conceits  hath  after-time  found  true, 
That  once  were  themes  for  jest.    I  shall  not  smile 
At  the  most  monstrous  legend. 

Leon.  Nor  will  I : 

To  any  tale  of  mighty  wonderment 
I  shall  bestow  my  ear,  nor  wonder  more  ; 
And  every  fancy  that  my  childhood  bred, 
In  vagrant  dreams  of  frolic,  I  shall  look 
To  have,  without  rebuke,  my  sense  approve. 
Thus,  like  a  little  island  in  the  sea, 
Girt  in  by  perilous  waters,  and  unknown 
To  all  adventure,  may  be  yon  same  cloud, 
Specking,  with  fleecy  bosom,  the  blue  sky, 
Lit  by  the  rising  moon.     There  we  may  dream, 
And  find  no  censure  in  an  after  day — 
Throng  the  assembled  fairies,  perch'd  on  beams, 
And  riding  on  their  way  triumphantly. 


108  WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 

There  gather  the  coy  spirits.     Many  a  fayy 
Roving  the  silver  sands  of  that  same  isle, 
Floating  in  azure  ether,  plumes  her  wing 
Of  ever-frolicsome  fancy,  and  pursues — 
While  myriads,  like  herself,  do  watch  the  chase — 
Some  truant  sylph,  through  the  infinitude 
Of  their  uncircumscribed  and  rich  domain. 
There  sport  they  through  the  night,  with  mimicry 
Of  strife  and  battle  ;  striking  their  tiny  shields 
And  gathering  into  combat ;  meeting  fierce, 
With  lip  compress'd  and  spear  aloft,  and  eye 
Glaring  with  fight  and  desperate  circumstance ; 
Then  sudden — in  a  moment  all  their  wrath, 
Mellow'd  to  friendly  terms  of  courtesy — 
Throwing  aside  the  dread  array,  and  linked, 
Each,  in  his  foe's  embrace.     Then  comes  the  dance, 
The  grateful  route,  the  wild  and  musical  pomp, 
The  long  procession  o'er  fantastic  realms        [night, 
Of  cloud  and  moonbeam,  through  th'  enamoured 
Making  it  all  one  revel.     Thus  the  eye, 
Breathed  on  by  fancy,  with  enlarged  scope, 
Through  the  protracted  and  deep  hush  of  night 
May  note  the  fairies,  coursing  the  lazy  hours 
In  various  changes  and  without  fatigue. 
A  fickle  race,  who  tell  their  time  by  flow'rs, 
And  live  on  zephyrs,  and  have  stars  for  lamps, 
And  night-dews  for  ambrosia ;  perch'd  on  beams, 
Speeding  through  space,  even  with  the  scattering 
On  which  they  feed  and  frolic.  [light 

Isa.  A  sweet  dream  : 

And  yet,  since  this  same  tale  we  laughed  at  once, 
The  story  of  old  Ortis,  is  made  sooth — 
Perchance  not  all  a  dream.     I  will  not  doubt. 

Leon.  And  yet  there  may  be,  dress'd  in  subtle  guise 
Of  unsuspected  art,  some  gay  deceit 
Of  human  conjuration  mix'd  with  this. 
Some  cunning  seaman  having  natural  skill — 
As,  from  the  books,  we  leam  may  yet  be  done — 
Hath  'yond  our  vessel's  figure  pitched  his  voice, 
Leading  us  wantonly. 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS.  109 

Isa.  It  is  not  so, 

Or  does  my  sense  deceive  ?    Look  there  :  the  wave 
A  perch  beyond  our  barque.     What  dost  thou  see  ? 

Leon.  A  marvellous  shape,  that  with  the  billow 
In  gambols  of  the  deep,  and  yet  is  not  [curls, 

Its  wonted  burden  ;  for  beneath  the  waves 
I  mark  a  gracious  form,  though  nothing  clear 
Of  visage  I  discern.     Again  it  speaks. 


THE   EDGE    OF  THE  SWAMP. 

'Tis  a  wild  spot  and  hath  a  gloomy  look  ; 

The  bird  sings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 

And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.    A  rank  growth 

Spreads  poisonously  round,  with  pow'r  to;  taint, 

With  blistering  dews,  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dares 

To  penetrate  the  covert.     Cypresses 

Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth;   and,  stretched  at 

length, 

The  cayman — a  fit  dweller  in  such  home— - 
Slumbers,  half  buried  in  the  sedgy  grass, 
Beside  the  green  ooze  where  he  shelters  him. 
A  whooping  crane  erects  his  skeleton  form, 
And  shrieks  in  flight.    Two  summer  ducks,  aroused 
To  apprehension  as  they  hear  his  cry, 
Dash  up  from  the  lagoon  with  marvellous. haste, 
Following*  his  guidance.    Meetly  taught  by  these, 
And  startled  at  our  rapid,  near  approach, 
The  steel-jawed  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 
Crawls  slowly  to  his  slimy,  green  abode, 
Which  straight  receives  him.    You  behold  him  now, 
His  ridgy  back  uprising  as  he  speeds 
In  silence  to  the  centre  of  the  stream, 
Whence  his  head  peers  alone.     A  butterfly, 
That,  travelling  all  the  day,  has  counted  climes 
Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  a  while, 
Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.     The  surly  mute 
Straightway  goes  down,  so  suddenly,  that  he, 


110  RUFUS   DA  WES. 

The  dandy  of  the  summer  flpw'rs  and  woods', 
Dips  his  light  wings  and  spoils  his  golden  coat 
With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  pond. 
Wondering  and  vex'd,  the  plumed  citizen 
Flies,  with  an  hurried  effort,  to  the  shore, 
Seeking  his  kindred  flow'rs  ;  but  seeks  in  vain : 
Nothing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  seen, 
Nothing  of  beautiful !     Wild,  ragged  trees, 
That  look  like  felon  spectres — fetid  shrubs, 
That  taint  the  gloomy  atmosphere — dusk  shades, 
That  gather,  half  a  cloud  and  half  a  fiend 
In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  swamp's  wild  edge — 
Gloom  with  their  sternness  and  forbidding  frowns 
The  general  prospect.     The  sad  butterfly, 
Waving  his  lacker'd  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 
And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  us  to  speed 
For  better  lodgings,  and  a  scene  more  sweet 
Than  these  drear  borders  offer  us  to-night. 


RUFUS  DAWES. 

TO   AN    INFANT    SLEEPING   IN   A    GARDEN. 

SLEEP  on,  sweet  babe  !  the  flowers  that  wake 
Around  thee  are  not  half  so  fair ; 

Thy  dimpling  smiles  unconscious  break, 
Like  sunlight  on  the  vernal  air. 

Sleep  on !  no  dreams  of  care  are  thine, 
No  anxious  thoughts  that  may  not  rest ; 

For  angel  arms  around  thee  twine, 
To  make  thy  infant  slumbers  bless'd. 

Perchance  her  spirit  hovers  near, 
Whose  name  thy  infant  beauty  bears, 

To  guard  thine  eyelids  from  the  tear 
That  every  child  of  sorrow  shares. 


RUFUS    DAWES.  Ill 


Oh !  may  thy  life  like  hers  endure, 
Unsullied  to  its  spotless  close  ; 

And  bend  to  earth  as  calm  and  pur» 
As  ever  bowed  the  summer  rose. 


SUNRISE  FROM    MOUNT    WASHINGTON. 

THE  laughing  hours  have  chased  away  the  night, 
Plucking  the  stars  out  from  her  diadem : 
And  now  the  blue-eyed  Morn,  with  modest  grace, 
Looks  through  her  half-drawn  curtains  in  the  east, 
Blushing  in  smiles  and  glad  as  infancy. 
And  see,  the  foolish  Moon,  but  now  so  vain 
Of  borrowed  beauty,  how  she  yields  her  charms, 
And,  pale  with  envy,  steals  herself  away ! 
The  clouds  have  put  their  gorgeous  livery  on, 
Attendant  on  the  day  :  the  mountain  tops 
Have  lit  their  beacons,  and  the  vales  below 
Send  up  a  welcoming :  no  song  of  birds, 
Warbling  to  charm  the  air  with  melody, 
Floats  on  the  frosty  breeze ;  yet  Nature  hath 
The  very  soul  of  music  in  her  looks ! 
The  sunshine  and  the  shade  of  poetry. 

I  stand  upon  thy  lofty  pinnacle, 
Temple  of  Nature  !  and  look  down  with  awe 
On  the  wide  world  beneath  me,  dimly  seen ; 
Around  me  crowd  the  giant  sons  of  earth, 
Fixed  on  their  old  foundations,  unsubdued ; 
Firm  as  when  first  rebellion  bade  them  rise 
Unrifted  to  the  Thunderer :  now  they  seem 
A  family  of  mountains,  clustering  round 
Their  hoary  patriarch,  emulously  watching 
To  meet  the  partial  glances  of  the  day. 
Far  in  the  glowing  east  the  flickering  light, 
Mellow'd  by  distance,  with  the  blue  sky  blending, 
Questions  the  eye  with  ever-varying  forms. 


112          LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  sun  comes  up !  away  the  shadows  fling 
From  the  broad  hills  ;  and,  hurrying  to  the  West, 
Sport  in  the  sunshine  till  they  die  away. 
The  many  beauteous  mountain  streams  leap  down, 
Out-welling  from  the  clouds,  and  sparkling  light 
Dances  along  with  their  perennial  flow. 
And  there  is  beauty  in  yon  river's  path, 
The  glad  Connecticut !  I  know  her  well, 
By  the  white  veil  she  mantles  o'er  her  charms : 
At  times  she  loiters  by  a  ridge  of  hills, 
Sportfully  hiding  ;  then  again  with  glee, 
Out-rushes  from  her  wild-wood  lurking-place, 
Far  as  the  eye  can  bound,  the  ocean-waves, 
And  hills  and  rivers,  mountains,  lakes,  and  woods, 
And  all  that  hold  the  faculty  entranced, 
Bathed  in  a  flood  of  glory,  float  in  air, 
And  sleep  in  the  deep  quietude  of  joy. 

There  is  an  awful  stillness  in  this  place, 
A  Presence,  that  forbids  to  break  the  spell, 
Till  the  heart  pour  its  agony  in  tears. 
But  I  must  drink  the  vision  while  it  lasts  ; 
For  even  now  the  curling  vapours  rise, 
Wreathing  their  cloudy  coronals,  to  grace 
These  towering  summits — bidding  me  away ; 
But  often  shall  my  heart  turn  back  again, 
Thou  glorious  eminence !  and  when  oppress'd, 
And  aching  with  the  coldness  of  the  world, 
Find  a  sweet  resting-place  and  home  with  thee. 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

THE    PROPHECY.* 

LET  me  gaze  a  while  on  that  marble  brow, 

On  that  full  dark  eye,  on  that  cheek's  warm  glow  ; 

*  Written  in  her  sixteenth  year. 


LUCRETIA    MARIA   DAVIDSON.  113 

Let  me  gaze  for  a  moment,  that,  ere  I  die, 
I  may  read  thee,  maiden,  a  prophecy. 
That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  a  while  ; 
That  cheek  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  may  smile ; 
That  full,  dark  eye  may  brightly  beam 
In  life's  gay  morn,  in  hope's  young  dream ; 
But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow, 
And  sorrow  blight  thy  bosom's  glow. 
I  know  by  that  spirit  so  haughty  and  high, 
I  know  by  that  brightly-flashing  eye, 
That,  maiden,  there's  that  within  thy  breast, 
Which  hath  mark'd  thee  out  for  a  soul  unbless'd  : 
The  strife  of  love  with  pride  shall  wring 
Thy  youthful  bosom's  tenderest  string ; 
And  the  cup  of  sorrow,  mingled  for  thee, 
Shall  be  drained  to  the  dregs  in  agony. 
Yes,  maiden,  yes,  I  read  in  thine  eye 
A  dark  and  a  doubtful  prophecy. 
Thou  shalt  love,  and  that  love  shall  be  thy  curse ; 
Thon  wilt  need  no  heavier,  thou  shalt  feel  no  worse. 
I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near ; 
The  voice  of  the  troubled  tide  I  hear ; 
The  torrent  of  sorrow,  the  sea  of  grief, 
The  rushing  waves  of  a  wretched  life  ; 
Thy  bosom's  bark  on  the  surge  I  see, 
And,  maiden,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee.' 
Not  a  star  in  the  heavens,  not  a  light  on  the  wave ! 
Maiden,  I've  gazed  on  thine  early  grave. 
When  I  am  cold,  and  the  hand  of  Death 
Hath  crown'd  my  brow  with  an  icy  wreath ; 
WThen  the  dew  hangs  damp  on  this  motionless  lip  ; 
When  this  eye  is  closed  in  its  long,  last  sleep, 
Then,  maiden,  pause,  when  thy  heart  beats  high. 
And  think  on  my  last  sad  prophecy. 
K2 


114  LUCRETIA   MARIA    DAVIDSON. 


TO  A   LADY  WHOSE   SINGING  RESEMBLED  THAT    OF  AN  ABSENT 
SISTER.* 

OH  !  touch  the  chord  yet  once  again, 
Nor  chide  me  though  I  weep  the  while  ; 

Believe  me,  that  deep  seraph  strain 
Bore  with  it  memory's  moonlight  smile, 

It  murmur'd  of  an  absent  friend ; 

The  voice,  the  air,  'twas  all  her  own ; 
And  hers  those  wild,  s.weet  notes,  which  blend 

In  one  mild,  murmuring,  touching  tone. 

And  days  and  months  have  darkly  pass'd 

Since  last  I  listen'd  to  her  lay ; 
And  Sorrow's  cloud  its  shade  hath  cast, 

Since  then,  across  my  weary  way. 

Yet  still  the  strain  comes  sweet  and  clear, 
Like  seraph-whispers  lightly  breathing ; 

Hush,  busy  Memory,  Sorrow's  tear 
Will  blight  the  garland  thou  art  weaving. 

'Tis  sweet,  though  sad — yes,  I  will  stay, 

I  cannot  tear  myself  away, 
I  thank  thee,  lady,  for  the  strain, 

The  tempest  of  my  soul  is  still ; 
Then  touch  the  chord  yet  once  again, 

For  thou  canst  calm  the  storm  at  will. 

*  Written  in  her  fifteenth  year. 


MARGARET   MILLER   DAVIDSON.  115 

MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON. 

HOME.* 

I  WOULD  fly  from  the  city,  would  fly  from  its  care, 
To  my  own  native  plants  and  my  flow'rets  so  fair, 
To  the  cool  grassy  shade  and  the  rivulet  bright, 
Which  reflects  the  pale  moon  in  its  bosom  of  light ; 
Again  would  I  view  the  old  cottage  so  dear. 
Where  I  sported  a  babe,  without  sorrow  or  fear  ; 
I  would  leave  this  great  city,  so  brilliant  and  gay, 
For  a  peep  at  my  home  on  this  fair  summer  day. 
I  have  friends  whom  I  love,  and  would  leave  with 

regret, 

But  the  love  of  my  home,  oh !  His  tenderer  yet ; 
There  a  sister  reposes  unconscious  in  death, 
'Twas  there  she  first  drew,  and  there  yielded  her 

breath. 

A  father  I  love  is  away  from  me  now, 
Oh!  could  I  but  print  a  sweet  kiss  on  his  brow, 
Or  smooth  the  gray  locks  to  my  fond  heart  so  dear, 
How  quickly  would  vanish  each  trace  of  a  tear. 
Attentive  I  listen  to  pleasure's  gay  call, 
Put  my  own  happy  home— it  is  dearer  than  all. 


TO   MY   MOTHER.f 

OH,  mother,  would  the  power  were  mine 

To  wake  the  strain  thou  lovest  to  hear, 

And  breathe  each  trembling  new-born  thought 

Within  thy  fondly-listening  ear, 

As  when  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 

My  hopes  and  fancies  wandered  free. 

*  Written  at  the  age  of  nine  years. 

t  This  poem  was  written  in  the  author's  sixteenth  year,  ant} 
was  her  last  composition. 


116  MARGARET   MILLER   DAVIDSON. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  hath  pass'd 
Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here  ; 
A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  hath  wrapp'd 
The  remnant  of  my  brief  career ; 
No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win, 
The  sparkling  fount  hath  dried  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 
And  fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  more, 
And  oh,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem 
The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before  ; 
My  soul,  with  trembling  steps  and  slow, 
Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife ; 
Oh,  may  it  prove,  as  time  rolls  on, 
The  pathway  to  eternal  life ! 
Then  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 
I'll  sing  thee  as  in  "  days  of  yore." 

I  said  that  Hope  had  passed  from  earth, 
'Twas  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  heaven, 
To  whisper  of  the  soul's  new  birth, 
Of  sinners  saved  and  sins  forgiven  ; 
When  mine  are  washed  in  tears  away, 
Then  shall  my  spirit  swell  my  lay. 

When  God  shall  guide  my  soul  above, 
By  the  soft  chords  of  heavenly  love— - 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  my  heart- 
Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise, 
And  all  not  offered  at  His  shrine, 
Dear  mother,  I  will  place  on  thine. 


-CARLOS    WILCOX.  117 

CARLOS  WILGOX. 

SPRING    IN    NEW-ENGLAND. 

LONG  swoln  in  drenching  rain,  seeds,  germes,  and 
Start  at  the  touch  of  vivifying  beams.  [buds 

Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  lymph 
Diffusive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  field 
A  flood  of  verdure.     Clothed,  in  one  short  week, 
Is  naked  Nature  in  her  full  attire. 
On  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 
Is  all  the  woodland,  filled  with  sunbeams,  poured 
Through  the  bare  tops,  on  yellow  leaves  below, 
With  strong  reflection :  on  the  last,  'tis  dark 
With  full-grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 
In  one  short  week  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms ; 
And  now,  when  steep'd  in  dew  or  gentle  showers, 
It  yields  the  purest  sweetness  to  the  breeze, 
Or  all  the  tranquil  atmosphere  perfumes. 
E'en  from  the  juicy  leaves  of  sudden  growth, 
And  the  rank  grass  of  steaming  ground,  the  air, 
Filled  with  a  watery  glimmering,  receives 
A  grateful  smell,  exhaled  by  warming  rays. 
Each  day  are  heard,  and  almost  every  hour, 
New  notes  to  swell  the  music  of  the  groves. 
And  soon  the  latest  of  the  feather'd  train 
At  evening  twilight  come  ;  the  lonely  snipe, 
O'er  marshy  fields,  high  in  the  dusky  air, 
Invisible,  but  with  faint,  tremulous  tones, 
Hovering  or  playing  o'er  the  listener's  head ; 
And,  in  mid-air,  the  sportive  night-hawk,  seen 
Flying  a  while  at  random,  uttering  oft 
A  cheerful  cry,  attended  with  a  shake 
Of  level  pinions,  dark,  but  when  upturned 
Against  the  brightness  of  the  western  sky, 
One  white  plume  showing  in  the  midst  of  each, 
Then  far  down  diving  with  loud  hollow  sound ; 
And,  deep  at  first  within  the  distant  wood, 


118  CARLOS    WILCOX. 

The  whip-poor-will,  her  name  her  only  song. 
She,  soon  as  children  from  the  noisy  sport 
Of  hooping,  laughing,  talking  with  all  tones, 
To  hear  the  echoes  of  the  empty  barn, 
Are  by  her  voice  diverted  and  held  mute, 
Comes  to  the  margin  of  the  nearest  grove ; 
And  when  the  twilight,  deepened  into  night, 
Calls  them  within,  close  to  the  house  she  comes, 
And  on  its  dark  side,  haply  on  the  step 
Of  unfrequented  door,  lighting  unseen, 
Breaks  into  strains  articulate  and  clear, 
The  closing  sometimes  quickened  as  in  sport. 
Now,  animate  throughout,  from  morn  to  eve 
AH  harmony,  activity,  and  joy, 
Is  lovely  Nature,  as  in  her  bless'd  prime. 
The  robin  to  the  garden  or  green  yard, 
Close  to  the  door,  repairs  to  build  again 
Within  her  wonted  tree  ;  and  at  her  work 
Seems  doubly  busy  for  her  past  delay. 
Along  the  surface  of  the  winding  stream, 
Pursuing  every  turn,  gay  swallows  skim, 
Or  round  the  borders  of  the  spacious  lawn 
Fly  in  repeated  circles,  rising  o'er 
Hillock  and  fence  with  motion  serpentine, 
Easy,  and  light.     One  snatches  from  the  ground 
A  downy  feather,  and  then  upward  springs, 
Followed  by  others,  but  oft  drops  it  soon, 
In  playful  mood,  or  from  too  slight  a  hold, 
When  all  at  once  dart  at  the  falling  prize. 
The  flippant  blackbird,  with  light  yellow  crown, 
Hangs  fluttering  in  the  air,  and  chatters  thick 
Till  her  breath  fail,  when,  breaking  off,  she  drops 
On  the  next  tree,  and  on  its  highest  limb 
Or  some  tall  flag,  and  gently  rocking,  sits, 
Her  strain  repeating.    With  sonorous  notes 
Of  every  tone,  mixed  in  confusion  sweet, 
All  chanted  in  the  fulness  of  delight, 
The  forest  rings  :  where,  far  around  enclosed 
With  bushy  sides,  and  covered  high  above 


CARLOS    WILCOX.  119 

With  foliage  thick,  supported  by  bare  trunks, 
Like  pillars  rising  to  support  a  roof, 
It  seems  a  temple  vast,  the  space  within 
Rings  loud  and  clear  with  thrilling  melody. 
Apart,  but  near  the  choir,  with  voice  distinct, 
The  merry  mocking-bird  together  links 
In  one  continued  song  their  different  notes, 
Adding  new  life  and  sweetness  to  them  all. 
Hid  under  shrubs,  the  squirrel  that  in  fields 
Frequents  the  stony  wall  and  briery  fence, 
Here  chirps  so  shrill  that  human  feet  approach 
Unheard  till  just  upon  him,  when,  with  cries 
Sudden  and  sharp,  he  darts  to  his  retreat 
Beneath  the  mossy  hillock  or  aged  tree  ; 
But  oft  a  moment  after  reappears, 
First  peeping  out,  then  starting  forth  at  once 
With  a  courageous  air,  yet  in  his  pranks 
Keeping  a  watchful  eye,  nor  venturing  far 
Till  left  unheeded.     In  rank  pastures  graze, 
Singly  and  mutely,  the  contented  herd ; 
And  on  the  upland  rough  the  peaceful  sheep ; 
Regardless  of  the  frolic  lambs,  that,  close 
Beside  them,  and  before  their  faces  prone, 
With  many  an  antic  leap  and  butting  feint, 
Try  to  provoke  them  to  unite  in  sport 
Or  grant  a  look,  till  tired  of  vain  attempts ; 
When,  gathering  in  one  company  apart, 
All  vigour  and  delight,  away  they  run, 
Straight  to  the  utmost  corner  of  the  field, 
The  fence  beside ;  then,  wheeling,  disappear 
In  some  small  sandy  pit,  then  rise  to  view ; 
Or  crowd  together  up  the  heap  of  earth 
Around  some  upturned  root  of  fallen  tree, 
And  on  its  top  a  trembling  moment  stand, 
Then  to  the  distant  flock  at  once  return. 
Exhilarated  by  the  general  joy, 
And  the  fair  prospect  of  a  fruitful  year, 
The  peasant,  with  light  heart  and  nimble  step, 
His  work  pursues,  as  it  were  pastime  sweet. 


120  "CARLOS   WILCOX. 

With  many  a  cheering  word,  his  willing  team, 

For  labour  fresh,  he  hastens  to  the  field 

Ere  morning  lose  its  coolness  ;  but  at  eve, 

When  loosened  from  the  plough  and  homeward 

He  follows  slow  and  silent,  stopping  oft         [turn'd, 

To  mark  the  daily  growth  of  tender  grain 

And  meadows  of  deep  verdure,  or  to  view 

His  scatter'd  flock  and  herd,  of  their  own  will 

Assembling  for  the  night  by  various  paths, 

The  old  now  freely  sporting  with  the  young, 

Or  labouring  with  uncouth  attempts  at  sport. 


SEPTEMBER. 

THE  sultry  summer  past,  September  comes, 
Soft  twilight  of  the  slow-declining  year. 
All  mildness,  soothing  loneliness,  and  peace ; 
The  fading  season  ere  the  falling  come, 
More  sober  than  the  buxom  blooming  May, 
And  therefore  less  the  favourite  of  the  world, 
But  dearest  month  of  all  to  pensive  minds. 
'Tis  now  far  spent ;  and  the  meridian  sun, 
Most  sweetly  smiling  with  attempered  beams, 
Sheds  gently  down  a  mild  and  grateful  warmth. 
Beneath  its  yellow  lustre  groves  and  woods, 
Checker'd  by  one  night's  frost  with  various  hues, 
While  yet  no  wind  has  swept  a  leaf  away, 
Shine  doubly  rich.     It  were  a  sad  delight 
Down  the  smooth  stream  to  glide,  and  see  it  tinged 
Upon  each  brink  with  all  the  gorgeous  hues, 
The  yellow,  red,-  or  purple  of  the  trees 
That  singly,  or  in  tufts,  or  forests  thick 
Adorn  the  shores  ;  to  see,  perhaps,  the  side 
Of  some  high  mount  reflected  far  below 
With  its  bright  colours,  intermix'd  with  spots 
Of  darker  green.     Yes,  it  were  sweetly  sad 
To  wander  in  the  open  fields,  and  hear, 


CARLOS   WILCOX.  121 

E'en  at  this  hour,  the  noonday  hardly  past, 

The  lulling  insects  of  the  summer's  night ; 

To  hear,  where  lately  buzzing  swarms  were  heard, 

A  lonely  bee  long  roving  here  and  there 

To  find  a  single  flower,  but  all  in  vain ; 

Then  rising  quick  and  with  a  louder  hum, 

In  widening  circles  round  and  round  his  head, 

Straight  by  the  listener  flying  clear  away, 

A  s  if  to  bid  the  fields  a  last  adieu  ; 

To  hear  within  the  woodland's  sunny  side, 

Late  fall  of  music,  nothing  save  perhaps 

The  sound  of  nutshells  by  the  squirrel  dropp'd 

From  some  tall  beech  fast  falling  through  the  leaves/ 


THE   CASTLE  OP   IMAGINATION. 

JUST  in  the  centre  of  that  wood  was  rear'd 
Her  castle,  all  of  marble,  smooth  and  white  ; 
Above  the  thick  young  trees,  its  top  appear'd 
Among  the  naked  trunks  of  towering  height ; 
And  here  at  morn  and  eve  it  glitter'd  bright, 
As  often  by  the  far-off  traveller  seen 
In  level  sunbeams,  or  at  dead  of  night, 
When  the  low  moon  shot  in  her  rays  between 
That  wide-spread  roof  and  floor  of  solid  foliage" 
green. 

Through  this  wide  interval  the  roving  eye 
From  turrets  proud  might  trace  the  waving  line 
Where  meet  the  mountains  green  and  azure  sky. 
And  view  the  deep  when  sun-gilt  billows  shine  ; 
Fair  bounds  to  sight,  that  never  thought  confine, 
But  tempt  it  far  beyond,  till  by  the  charm 
Of  some  sweet  wood-note  or  some  whispering 

pine 

CalPd  home  again,  or  by  the  soft  alarm 
Of  Love's  approaching  step,  and  her  encircling  armv 
L 


122  CARLOS    WILCOX, 

Through  this  wide  interval,  the  mountain  side 
Showed  many  a  sylvan  slope  and  rocky  steep : 
Here  roaring  torrents  in  dark  forests  hide ; 
There  silver  streamlets  rush  to  view,  and  leap 
Unheard  from  lofty  cliffs  to  valleys  deep : 
Here  rugged  peaks  look  smooth  in  sunset  glow, 
Along  the  clear  horizon's  western  sweep  ; 
There  from  some   eastern   summit  moonbeams 

flow 
Along  o'er  level  wood,  far  down  to  plains  below. 

Now  stretch'd  a  blue,  and  now  a  golden  zone 
Round  that  horizon ;  now  o'er  mountains  proud 
Dim  vapours  rest,  or  bright  ones  move  alone  : 
An  ebon  wall,  a  smooth  portentous  cloud, 
First  muttering  low,  anon  with  thunder  loud, 
Now  rises  quick,  and  brings  a  sweeping  wind 
O'er  all  that  wood  in  waves  before  it  bowed ; 
And  now  a  rainbow,  with  its  top  behind 
A  spangled  veil  of  leaves,  seems  heaven  and  earth 
to  bind. 

Above  the  canopy,  so  thick  and  green, 

And  spread  so  high  o'er  that  enchanted  vale, 

Through  scatter'd  openings   oft  were  glimpses 

seen 

Of  fleecy  clouds,  that,  linked  together,  sail 
In  moonlight  clear  before  the  gentle  gale  : 
Sometimes  a  shooting  meteor  draws  a  glance ; 
Sometimes  a  twinkling  star,  or  planet  pale, 
Long  holds  the  lighted  eye,  as  in  a  trance  ; 
And  oft  the  milky-way  gleams  through  the  white  ex 
panse. 

That  castle's  open  windows,  though  half  hid 
With  flowering  vines,  showed  many  a  vision  fair:- 
A  face  all  bloom,  or  light  young  forms  that  thrid 
Some  maze  within,  or  lonely  ones  that  wear 


CARLOS    WILCOX.  123 

The  garb  of  joy  with  sorrow's  thoughtful  air, 
Oft  caught  the  eye  a  moment :  and  the  sound 
Of  low,  sweet  music  often  issued  there, 
And  by  its  magic  held  the  listener  bound, 
And  seem'd  to  hold  the  winds  and  forests  far  around. 

Within,  the  queen  of  all,  in  pomp  or  mirth, 
While  glad  attendants  at  her  glance  unfold 
Their  shining  wings,  and  fly  through  heaven  and 

earth, 

Oft  took  her  throne  of  burning  gems  and  gold, 
Adorn'd  with  emblems  that  of  empire  told, 
And  rising  in  the  midst  of  trophies  bright, 
That  bring  her  memory  from  the  days  of  old, 
And  help  prolong  her  reign,  and  with  the  flight 
Of  every  year  increase  the  wonders  of  her  might. 

In  all  her  dwelling,  tales  of  wild  romance, 

Of  terror,  love,  and  mystery  dark  or  gay, 

Were   scatter'd  thick   to   catch   the   wandering 

glance, 

And  stop  the  dreamer  on  his  unknown  way ; 
There  too  was  every  sweet  and  lofty  lay, 
The  sacred,  classic,  and  romantic,  sung 
As  that  Enchantress  moved  in  might  or  play ; 
Arid  there  was  many  a  harp  but  newly  strung, 
Yet  with  its  fearless  notes  the  whole  wide  valley 
rung. 

There,  from  all  lands  and  ages  of  her  fame, 
Were  marble  forms,  array'd  in  order  due, 
In  groups  and  single,  all  of  proudest  name ; 
In  them  the  high,  the  fair,  and  tender,  grew 
To  life  intense  in  love's  impassion'd  view, 
And  from  each  air  and  feature,  bend  and  swell, 
Each  shapely  neck,  and  lip,  and  forehead,  threw 
O'er  each  enamour'd  sense  so  deep  a  spell, 
The  thoughts  but  with  the  past  or  bright  ideal  dwell. 


124  CARLOS   WILCOX. 

The  walls  around  told  all  the  pencil's  power ; 
There  proud  creations  of  each  mighty  hand 
Shone  with  their  hues  and  lines  as  in  the  hour, 
When  the  last  touch  was  given  at  the  command 
Of  the  same  genius  that  at  first  had  plann'd, 
Exulting  in  its  great  and  glowing  thought : 
Bright  scenes  of  peace  and  war,  of  sea  and  land, 
Of  love  and  glory,  to  new  life  were  wrought, 
from  history,  from  fable,  and  from  nature  brought. 

With  these  were  others  all  divine,  drawn  all 
From  ground  where  oft,  with  signs  and  accents 
The  lonely  prophet  doom'd  to  sudden  fall    [dread, 
Proud  kings  and  cities,  and  with  gentle  tread 
Bore  life's  quick  triumph  to  the  humble  dead, 
And  where  strong  angels  flew  to  blast  or  save, 
Where  martyr'd  hosts  of  old,  and  youthful  bled, 
And  where  their  mighty  Lord  o'er  land  and  wave 
;Spread  life  and  peace  till  death,  then  spread  them 
through  the  grave. 

From  these  fix'd  visions  of  the  hallow'd  eye, 
Some  kindling  gleams  of  their  ethereal  glow, 
Would  ofttimes  fall,  as  from  the  opening  sky, 
On  eyes  delighted,  glancing  to  and  fro, 
Or  fasten'd  till  their  orbs  dilated  grow ; 
Then  would  the  proudest  seem  with  joy  to  learn 
Truths  they  had  feared  or  felt  ashamed  to  know ; 
The  skeptic  would  believe,  the  lost  return ; 
And  all  the  cold  and  low  would  seem  to  rise  and  burn. 

Theirs  was  devotion  kindled  by  the  vast, 
The  beautiful,  impassion'd,  and  refined ; 
And  in  the  deep  enchantment  o'er  them  cast, 
They  look'd  from  earth,  and  soar'd  above  their 
To  the  bless'd  calm  of  an  abstracted  mind,    [kind 
And  its  communion  with  things  all  its  own, 
Its  forms  sublime  and  lovely ;  as  the  blind, 
Mid  earthly  scenes,  forgotten,  or  unknown, 
Live  in  ideal  worlds,  and  wander  there  alone. 


CARLOS    WILCOX.  125 

Such  were  the  lone  enthusiasts,  wont  to  dwell 
With  all  whom  that  Enchantress  held  subdued, 
As  in  the  holiest  circle  of  her  spell, 
Where  meaner  spirits  never  dare  intrude, 
They  dwelt  in  calm  and  silent  solitude, 
Rapt  in  the  love  of  all  the  high  and  sweet, 
In  thought,  and  art,  and  nature,  and  imbued  , 

With  its  devotion  to  life's  inmost  seat, 
As  drawn  from  all  the  charms  which  in  that  valley 
meet. 


ROSSBAU   AND   COWPER. 

ROSSEAU  could  weep— yes,  with  a  heart  of  stone 
The  impious  sophist  could  recline  beside 
The  pure  and  peaceful  lake,  and  muse  alone 
On  all  its  loveliness  at  even  tide  : 
On  its  small  running  waves  in  purple  dyed 
Beneath  bright  clouds  or  all  the  glowing  sky, 
On  the  white  sails  that  o'er  its  bosom  glide, 
And  on  surrounding  mountains  wild  and  high, 
Till  tears  unbidden  gush'd  from  his  enchanted  eye. 

But  his  were  not  the  tears  of  feeling  fine 
Of  grief  or  love  ;  at  fancy's  flash  they  flow'd, 
Like  burning  drops  from  some  proud  lonely  pine 
By  lightning  fired  ;  his  heart  with  passion  glow'd 
Till  it  consumed  his  life,  and  yet  he  show'd 
A  chilling  coldness  both  to  friend  and  foe, 
As  Etna,  with  its  centre  an  abode 
Of  wasting  fire,  chills  with  the  icy  snow 
Of  all  its  desert  brow  the  living  world  below. 

Was  he  but  justly  wretched  from  his  crimes  ? 
Then  why  was  Cowper's  anguish  oft  as  keen, 
With  all  the  heaven-born  virtue  that  sublimes 
Genius  and  feeling,  and  to  things  unseen 
Li 


126  CARLOS    WILCOX. 

Lifts  the  pure  heart  through  clouds  that  roll  be 
tween 

The  earth  and  skies,  to  darken  human  hope  1 
Or  wherefore  did  those  clouds  thus  intervene 
To  render  vain  faith's  lifted  telescope, 
And  leave  him  in  thick  gloom  his  weary  way  to 
grope  ? 

He  too  could  give  himself  to  musing  deep, 
By  the  calm  lake  at  evening  he  could  stand, 
Lonely  and  sad,  to  see  the  moonlight  sleep 
On  all  its  breast  by  not  an  insect  fanned, 
And  hear  low  voices  on  the  far-off  strand, 
Or  through  the  still  and  dewy  atmosphere 
The  pipe's  soft  tones  waked  by  some  gentle  hand, 
From  fronting  shore  and  woody  island  near 
In  echoes  quick  return'd  more  mellow  and  more 
clear. 

And  he  could  cherish  wild  and  mournful  dreams. 
In  the  pine  grove,  when  low  the  full  moon  fair 
Shot  under  lofty  tops  her  level  beams, 
Stretching  the  shades  of  trunks  erect  and  bare, 
In  stripes  drawn  parallel  with  order  rare, 
As  of  some  temple  vast  or  colonnade, 
While  on  green  turf  made  smooth  without  his  care 
He  wander'd  o'er  its  stripes  of  light  and  shade, 
And  heard  the  dying  day-breeze  all  the  boughs  per* 
vade. 

'Twas  thus  in  nature's  bloom  and  solitude 
He  nursed  his  grief  till  nothing  could  assuage  ; 
'Twas  thus  his  tender  spirit  was  subdued, 
Till  in  life's  toils  it  could  no  more  engage  ; 
And  his  had  been  a  useless  pilgrimage, 
Had  he  been  gifted  with  no  sacred  power, 
To  send  his  thoughts  to  every  future  age  ; 
But  he  is  gone  where  grief  will  not  devour, 
Where  beauty  will  not  fade,  and  skies  will  never 
lower, 


CARLOS   WILCOX.  127 


THE    CURE    OF    MELANCHOLY. 

AND  thou  to  whom  long  worshipp'd  nature  lends 
No  strength  to  fly  from  grief  or  bear  its  weight, 
Stop  not  to  rail  at  foes  or  fickle  friends, 
JMbr  set  the  world  at  naught,  nor  spurn  at  fate ; 
None  seek  thy  misery,  none  thy  being  hate ; 
Break  from  thy  former  self,  thy  life  begin  ; 
Do  thou  the  good  thy  thoughts  oft  meditate, 
And  thou  shalt  feel  the  good  man's  peace  within, 
And  at  thy  dying  day  his  wreath  of  glory  win. 

With  deeds  of  virtue  to  embalm  his  name, 

He  dies  in  triumph  or  serene  delight ; 

Weaker  and  weaker  grows  his  mortal  frame 

At  every  breath,  but  in  immortal  might 

His  spirit  grows,  preparing  for  its  flight : 

The  world  recedes  and  fades  like  clouds  of  even, 

But  heaven  comes  nearer  fast,  and  grows  more 

bright, 

All  intervening  mists  far  off  are  driven ; 
The  world  will  vanish  soon,  and  all  will  soon  be 
heaven. 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief! 
Or  is  thy  heart  oppress'd  with  woes  untold? 
Balm  wouldst  thou  gather  for  corroding  grief  1 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold : 
'Tis  when  the  rose  is  wrapp'd  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty ;  not,  when  all  unrolled, 
Leaf  after  leaf  its  bosom  rich  and  fair  [air. 

Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the  ambient 

Wake  thou  that  sleepest  in  enchanted  bowers. 
Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on  the 

night 

When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  number'd  hours 
To  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight ; 


128  FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

Wake  ere  the  earthborn  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  address'd ; 
Do  something— do  it  soon — with  all  thy  might ; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself  inactive  were  no  longer  bless'd. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 
Contemplate  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Become  thy  study,  pastime,  rest,  and  food, 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined ; 
Pray  Heaven  for  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose — to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fix'd  and  feelings  purely  kind, 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review, 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due. 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 


To  a  rose,  brought  from  near  Alloway  Kirk,  in  Ayreshire, 
in  the  autumn  of  1822. 

WILD  ROSE  of  Alloway !  my  thanks : 
Thou  'mindst  me  of  that  autumn  noon 

When  first  we  met  upon  "the  banks 
And  braes  o'  bonny  Boon." 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We've  cross'd  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  wither'd — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine— 

The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay— 
And  wither'd  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway  1 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK.  129 

Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 

My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long, 
His_who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 

Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  Burns— a  name 
That  calls,  when  brimm'd  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory,  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory— be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind ; 
And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 

We  may  of  human  kind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath; 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 
His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard-peasant  given ! 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-Minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour ; 

And  know,  however  low  Ms  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power. 

The  pride  that  lifted  Bums  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendancy  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 


130  FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires '. 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there  ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 
In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 
The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listen'd,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  Poet's  mastery. 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth ; 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  sung ! 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK.  13$ 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 

Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 
All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 

Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Burns — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod — 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 

Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  wo, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal,. 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 

His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 
And  moved,  in  manhood  and  in  youth, 

Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong,. 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward,  and  of  slave ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 
That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye, 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 


132  FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

Praise  to  the  bard!  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man !  a  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 
The  last,  the  hallow'd  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  Wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 
Crown'd  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed7, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, 
Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 

From  countries  near  and  far ; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have  press'd 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land. 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK.  133 

AH  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 
Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries ! 
The  Poet's  tomb  is -there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 
His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urns  ? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 


RED    JACKET. 

A  chief  of  the  Indian  Tribes,  the  Tuscaroras. 

COOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind, 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind  ; 

And  throned  her  in  the  Senate  Hall  of  Nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought, 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought. 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law-authority — it  passed  nem.  con. — 

He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlighten'd  people  ever  known. 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 
In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  nor  an  epitaph. 
M 


134  FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

And,  furthermore,  in  fifty  years  or  sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine ; 

And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora, 

Gazing  as  I.  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medall'd,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eyes  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow— 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings ; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 
Outrival  Europe — even  in  our  kings. 

For  thou  wert  monarch  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages, 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely.    Though  no  poet's  magic 
Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Unless  he  had  a  genius  for  the  tragic, 
And  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime ; 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 
Of  thine  own  land  ;  and  on  her  herald-roll, 

As  nobly  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  CCEUR  DE  LION'S,  of  a  warrior's  soul. 

Thy    garb  —  though    Austria's    bosom-star  Would 

frighten 

That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 
And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  in  the  dance  at  Brigh 
ton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch  on  field  and  flood, 

As  Rob  Roy's  tartans  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 


PITZ- GREENE    HALLECK.  135 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit  1  (like  a  whaler's) 
Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 

As  earth's  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 
Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  eloquence  *     Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are  short. 

Is  beauty  T  Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed, 
But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years, 

And  she  who  perish'd,  young  and  broken-hearted, 
Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles,  and  not  for  tears. 

The  monarch  mind — the  mystery  of  commanding, 
The  godlike  power,  the  art  Napoleon, 

Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one ; 

Thou  hast  it.     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  im'nstrel  minds,  without  a  blush,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  their  dark  pall. 

Who  will  believe — not  I — for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 
That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem. 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  patriarch's,  sooth  a  dying  hour; 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlight  bower  ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clinched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair  ? 


136      HENRY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

That  in  thy  veins  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  which  bathes  the  Upas-tree  ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  Cat  o'  Mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee  ? 

And  underneath  that  face  like  summer's  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all,  save  fear, 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipes  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars  ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle  trophies  and  thy  scars  ; 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  will  be  by  the  Great  Spirit 
Remember'd  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone  ; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 
Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

THE    LIGHT    OF    STARS. 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon  ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
Oh  no !  from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A  hero's  armour  gleams. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW.       137 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

Oh  star  of  strength  1  1  see  thee  stand 

And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 
Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 

And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars  :    • 
I  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquer'd  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possess'd. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 
As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS    OF    ANGELS. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  number'd, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumber'd, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 
M2 


138      HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherish'd 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perish'd, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Utter'd  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW.       139 

Oh,  though  oft  depress'd  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


THE    SPIRIT  OP    POETRY. 

THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  south  wind  blows ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassion'd  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast-ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf ; 
Or  when  the  cowl'd  and  dusky-sandaled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless 

laughter. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm. 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.     And  here,  amid 
The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 
As  to  the  sunshine,  and  the  pure  bright  air, 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.     Hence  gifted  bards 
Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds ; 


140  CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 

The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope  at  evening  goes ; 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in  j 
Mountain,  and  shatter'd  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 
The  distant  lake,  fountains,  and  mighty  trees, 
In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetical  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit  that  doth  fill 
The  world ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  imbodies  it, 
As  the  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature,  of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild-bird's  wing,  and  flush  the  clouds 
When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 
And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich  red  rose.     Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her  cheek 
Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath, 
It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 
As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 
Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  cadence. 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

THE   FORCE    OP    CURIOSITY. 

How  swells  my  theme !  how  vain  my  power  I  find, 
To  track  the  windings  of  the  curious  mind ; 
Let  aught  be  hid,  though  useless,  nothing  boots, 
Straightway  it  must  be  pluck'd  up  by  the  roots. 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  141 

How  oft  we  lay  the  volume  down  to  ask 

Of  him,  the  victim  in  the  Iron  Mask ; 

The  crusted  medal  rub  with  painful  care, 

To  spell  the  legend  out — that  is  not  there  ; 

With  dubious  gaze  o'er  mossgrown  tombstones  bend 

To  find  a  name — the  herald  never  penned ; 

Dig  through  the  lava-deluged  city's  breast, 

Learn  all  we  can,  and  wisely  guess  the  rest : 

Ancient  or  modern,  sacred  or  profane, 

All  must  be  known,  and  all  obscure  made  plain ; 

If  'twas  a  pippin  tempted  Eve  to  sin, 

If  glorious  Byron  drugged  his  muse  with  gin ; 

If  Troy  e'er  stood,  if  Shakspeare  stole  a  deer, 

If  Israel's  missing  tribes  found  refuge  here ; 

If  like  a  villain  Captain  Henry  lied, 

If  like  a  martyr  Captain  Morgan  died. 

Its  aim  oft  idle,  lovely  in  its  end, 
We  turn  to  look,  then  linger  to  befriend ; 
The  maid  of  Egypt  thus  was  led  to  save 
A  nation's  future  leader  from  the  wave  : 
New  things  to  hear  when  erst  the  Gentiles  ran, 
Truth  closed  what  Curiosity  began. 
How  many  a  noble  art,  now  widely  known, 
Owes  its  young  impulse  to  this  power  alone  : 
Even  in  its  slightest  working  we  may  trace 
A  deed  that  changed  the  fortunes  of  a  race ; 
Bruce,  banned  and  hunted  on  his  native  soil, 
With  curious  eye  surveyed  a  spider's  toil ; 
Six  times  the  little  climber  strove  and  failed ; 
Six  times  the  chief  before  his  foes  had  quailed ; 
"  Once  more,"  he  cried,  "  in  thine  my  doom  I  read, 
Once  more  I  dare  the  fight  if  thou  succeed ;" 
'Twas  done  :  the  insect's  fate  he  made  his  own : 
Once  more  the  battle  waged,  and  gained  a  throne. 

Behold  the  sick  man  in  his  easy  chair ; 
Barred  from  the  busy  crowd  and  bracing  air, 
How  every  passing  trifle  proves  its  power 
To  while  away  the  long,  dull,  lazy  hour. 
As  down  the  pane  the  rival  rain-drops  chase, 
Curious  he'll  watch  to  see  which  wins  the  race ; 


142  CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 

And  let  two  dogs  beneath  his  window  fight, 

He'll  shut  his  Bible  to  enjoy  the  sight. 

So  with  each  newborn  nothing  rolls  the  day, 

Till  some  kind  neighbour,  stumbling  in  his  way, 

Draws  up  his  chair,  the  sufferer  to  amuse, 

And  makes  him  happy  while  he  tells — The  News. 

The  News !  our  morning,  noon,  and  evening  cry ; 
Day  unto  day  repeats  it  till  we  die. 
For  this  the  cit,  the  critic,  and  the  fop, 
Dally  the  hour  away  in  Tensor's  shop ; 
For  this  the  gossip  takes  her  daily  route, 
And  wears  your  threshold  and  your  patience  out ; 
For  this  we  leave  the  parson  in  the  lurch, 
And  pause  to  prattle  on  the  way  to  church  ; 
Even  when  some  coffin'd  friend  we  gather  round, 
We  ask,  "  What  news  V  then  lay  him  in  the  ground ; 
To  this  the  breakfast  owes  its  sweetest  zest, 
For  this  the  dinner  cools,  the  bed  remains  impress'd. 


THE  TRAVELLER'S  FATJS. 

UNDRAW  yon  curtain,  look  within  that  room, 
vVhere  all  is  splendour,  yet  where  all  is  gloom  : 
Why  weeps  that  mother  ?  why,  in  pensive  mood, 
Group  noiseless  round,  that  little,  lovely  brood  ? 
The  battledore  is  still,  lain  by  each  book, 
And  the  harp  slumbers  in  its  'custom'd  nook. 
Who  hath  done  this  ?  what  cold,  unpitying  foe, 
Hath  made  his  house  the  dwelling-place  of  wo  ? 
'Tis.he,  the  husband,  father,  lost  in  care, 
O'er  that  sweet  fellow  in  his  cradle  there  : 
The  gallant  bark  that  rides  by  yonder  strand, 
Bears  him  to-morrow  from  his  native  land. 
Why  turns  he,  half  unwilling,  from  his  home, 
To  tempt  the  ocean  and  the  earth  to  roam  '\ 
Wealth  he  can  boast,  a  miser's  sigh  would  hush, 
And  health  is  laughing  in  that  ruddy  blush ; 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  143 

Friends  spring  to  greet  him,  and  he  has  no  foe— 
So  honour'd  and  so  bless'd,  what  bids  him  go  ? 
His  eye  must  see,  his  foot  each  spot  must  tread, 
Where  sleeps  the  dust  of  earth's  recorded  dead ; 
Where  rise  the  monuments  of  ancient  time, 
Pillar  and  pyramid  in  age  sublime  : 
The  pagan's  temple  and  the  churchman's  tower, 
War's  bloodiest  plain,  and  Wisdom's  greenest  bower ; 
All  that  his  wonder  woke  in  schoolboy  themes, 
All  that  his  fancy  fired  in  youthful  dreams  : 
Where  Socrates  once  taught  he  thirsts  to  stray, 
Where  Homer  poured  his  everlasting  lay ; 
From  Virgil's  tomb  he  longs  to  pluck  one  flower, 
By  Avon's  stream  to  live  one  moonlight  hour  ; 
To  pause  where  England  "  garners  up"  her  great, 
And  drop  a  patriot's  tear  to  Milton's  fate  ;  . 
Fame's  living  masters,  too,  he  must  behold, 
Whose  deeds  shall  blazon  with  the  best  of  old : 
Nations  compare,  their  laws  and  customs  scan, 
And  read,  wherever  spread,  the  book  of  Man ; 
For  these  he  goes,  self-banish'd  from  his  hearth, 
And  wrings  the  hearts  of  all  he  loves  on  earth. 

Yet  say,  shall  not  new  joy  those  hearts  inspire, 
When  grouping  round  the  future  winter  fire , 
To  hear  the  wonders  of  the  world  they  burn, 
And  lose  his  absence  in  his  glad  return? 
Return  ?  alas !  he  shall  return  no  more, 
To  bless  his  own  sweet  home,  his  own  proud  shore 
Look  once  again :  cold  in  his  cabin  now, 
Death's  finger-mark  is  on  his  pallid  brow  ; 
No  wife  stood  by,  her  patient  watch  to  keep, 
To  smile  on  him,  then  turn  away  to  weep ; 
Kind  woman's  place  rough  mariners  supplied, 
And  shared  the  wanderer's  blessing  when  he  died. 
Wrapp'd  in  the  raiment  that  it  long  must  wear, 
His  body  to  the  deck  they  slowly  bear; 
Even  there  the  spirit  that  I  sing  is  true, 
The  crew  look  on  with  sad  but  curious  view ; 
The  setting  sun  flings  round  his  farewell  rays, 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  not  a  ripple  plays  ; 


144  CHARLES    SPRAGTTfT. 

How  eloquent,  how  awful  in  its  power, 
The  silent  lecture  of  death's  sabbath-hour : 
One  voice  that  silence  breaks — the  prayer  is  said, 
And  the  last  rite  man  pays  to  man  is  paid ; 
The  plashing  water  marks  his  resting-place, 
And  fold  him  round  in  one  long,  cold  embrace  ; 
Bright  bubbles  for  a  moment  sparkle  o'er, 
Then  break,  to  be,  like  him,  beheld  no  more  ; 
Down,  countless  fathoms  down,  he  sinks  to  sleep, 
With  all  the  nameless  shapes  that  haunt  the  deep. 


I   SEE  THEE    STILL. 

"  I  rocked  her  in  the  cradle, 
And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.    She  was  the  youngest : 
What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie  !    The  youngest  ne'er  grow  old. 
The  fond  endearments  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them,  and  when  they  die, 
Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them." 

I  SEE  thee  still : 

Remembrance,  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 
Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 
Thou'rt  with  me  through  the  gloomy  night ; 
In  dreams  I  meet  thee  as  of  old ; 
Then  thy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear ; 
In  every  scene  to  memory  dear, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still, 

In  every  hallow'd  token  round ; 
This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound, 
This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded, 
This  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided, 
These  flowers,  all  withered  now,  like  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  thou  didst  cull  for  me  -T 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  145 

This  book  was  thine,  here  didst  thou  read ; 
This  picture,  ah !  yes,  here,  indeed, 
I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still : 

Here  was  thy  summer  noon's  retreat, 
Here  was  thy  favourite  fireside  seat ; 
This  was  thy  chamber — here,  each  day, 
I  sat  and  watch'd  thy  sad  decay ; 
Here,  on  this  bed,  thou  last  didst  lie, 
Here,  on  this  pillow,  thou  didst  die  : 
Dark  hour !  once  more  its  woes  unfold ; 
As  then  I  saw  thee,  pale  and  cold, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still : 

Thou  art  not  in  the  grave  confined — 
Death  cannot  claim  the  immortal  Mind ; 
Let  Earth  close  o'er  its  sacred  trust, 
But  goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust  ,• 
Thee,  oh!  my  sister,  'tis  not  thee 
Beneath  the  coffin's  lid  I  see ; 
Thou  to  a  fairer  land  art  gone : 
There,  let  me  hope,  my  journey  done, 

To  see  thee  still ! 


•THE   FAMILY   MEETING. 

Written  oh  occasion  of  the  accidental  meeting  of  all  the  sur 
viving  members  of  a  family. 

WE  are  all  here ! 

Father,  Mother, 

Sister,  Brother, 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled — we're  all  at  home; 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come  : 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we're  found  : 
N 


146  CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 

Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot ; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour ; 
We're  all— all  here. 

We're  not  all  here ! 
Some  are  away — the  dead  ones  dear, 
Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient  hearth, 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band : 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away, 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day ; 
The  quiet  graveyard — some  lie  there — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share — 

We're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Even  they — the  dead — though  dead,  so  dear ; 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remembered  face  appears ! 
We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past, 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast ; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold, 
They're  round  us  as  they  were  of  old— 
We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here ! 

Father,  Mother, 

Sister,  Brother, 

You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said  ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead ; 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round, 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
Oh !  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ; 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  147 

So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss, 
We're  all— all  here! 


THE    WINGED   WORSHIPPERS. 

Two  swallows,  having  flown  into  church  during  divine  service, 
were  apostrophized  in  the  following  stanzas. 

GAY,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  1 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep : 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Bless'd  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  rear'd  with  hands. 

Or  if  ye  stay 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 


148  EDWARD   C.    PINKNEY. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  heaven  indeed, 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar. 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


EDWARD  C.  PINKNEY. 

THE  INDIAN'S  BRIDE. 

WHY  is  that  graceful  female  here, 
With  yon  red  hunter  of  the  deer  ? 
Of  gentle  mien  and  shape,  she  seems 

For  civil  halls  design'd, 
Yet  with  the  stately  savage  walks 

As  she  were  of  his  kind. 
Look  on  her  leafy  diadem, 
Enrich'd  with  many  a  floral  gem ; 
Those  simple  ornaments  about 

Her  candid  brow,  disclose 
The  loitering  Spring's  last  violet, 

And  Summer's  earliest  rose  ; 
But  not  a  flower  lies  breathing  there, 
Sweet  as  herself,  or  half  so  fair. 
Exchanging  lustre  with  the  sun, 

A  part  of  day  she  strays  ; 
A  glancing,  living,  human  smile, 

On  nature's  face  she  plays. 
Can  none  instruct  me  what  are  these 
Companions  of  the  lofty  trees  1 

Intent  to  blend  with  his  her  lot, 
Fate  form'd  her  all  that  he  was  not; 


EDWARD    C.    PINKNEY.  149 

And  as  by  mere  unlikeness  thoughts 

Associate  we  see, 
Their  hearts  from  very  difference  caught 

A  perfect  sympathy. 
The  household  goddess  here  to  be 
Of  that  one  dusky  votary, 
She  left  her  pallid  countrymen, 

An  earthling  most  divine, 
And  sought  in  this  sequester'd  wood 

A  solitary  shrine. 

Behold  them  roaming  hand  in  hand, 
Like  night  and  sleep,  along  the  land ; 
Observe  their  movements  :  he  for  her 

Restrains  his  active  stride, 
While  she  assumes  a  bolder  gait 

To  ramble  at  his  side ; 
Thus,  even  as  the  steps  they  frame, 
Their  souls  fast  alter  to  the  same. 
The  one  forsakes  ferocity, 

And  momently  grows  mild ; 
The  other  tempers  more  and  more 

The  artful  with  the  wild. 
She  humanizes  him,  and  he 
Educates  her  to  liberty. 

Oh,  say  not  they  must  soon  be  old, 

Their  limbs  prove  faint,  their  breasts  feel  cold ! 

Yet  envy  I  that  sylvan  pair 

More  than  my  words  express, 
The  singular  beauty  of  their  lot, 

And  seeming  happiness. 
They  have  not  been  reduced  to  share 
The  painful  pleasures  of  despair : 
Their  sun  declines  not  in  the  sky, 

Nor  are  their  wishes  cast, 
Like  shadows  of  the  afternoon, 

Repining  towards  the  past : 
With  naught  to  dread  or  to  repent, 
The  present  yields  them  full  content. 
N2 


150  EDWARD    C.    PINKNEY. 

In  solitude  there  is  no  crime ; 

Their  actions  are  all  free, 
And  passion  lends  their  way  of  life 

The  only  dignity ; 
And  how  should  they  have  any  cares'? 

Whose  interest  contends  with  theirs  * 

• 

The  world,  or  all  they  know  of  it, 
Is  theirs  :  for  them  the  stars  are  lit ; 
For  them  the  earth  beneath  is  green, 

The  heavens  above  are  bright : 
For  them  the  moon  doth  wax  and  wane, 

And  decorate  the  night ; 
For  them  the  branches  of  those  trees 
Wave  music  in  the  vernal  breeze ; 
For  them  upon  that  dancing  spray 

The  free  bird  sits  and  sings, 
And  glitt'ring  insects  flit  about 

Upon  delighted  wings  ; 
For  them  that  brook,  the  brakes  among, 
Murmurs  its  small  and  drowsy  song ; 
For  them  the  many-colour'd  clouds 

Their  shapes  diversify, 
And  change  at  once,  like  smiles  and  frowns, 

Th'  expression  of  the  sky. 
For  them  and  by  them  all  is  gay, 
And  fresh  and  beautiful  as  they : 
The  images  their  minds  receive, 

Their  minds  assimilate, 
To  outward  forms  imparting  thus 

The  glory  of  their  state. 
Could  aught  be  painted  otherwise 
Than  fair,  seen  through  her  star-bright  eyes  ? 
He  too,  because  she  fills  his  sight, 

Each  object  falsely  sees  ; 
The  pleasure  that  he  has  in  her 

Makes  all  things  seem  to  please. 
And  this  is  love  ;  and  it  is  life 

lead,  that  Indian  and  his  wife. 


EMMA   C.   EMBURY.  151 


How  feels  the  guiltless  dreamer,  who 

With  idly  curious  gaze 

Has  let  his  mind's  glance  wander  through 

The  relics  of  past  days  1 

As  feels  the  pilgrim  that  has  scann'd, 

Within  their  skirting  wall, 

The  moonlit  marbles  of  some  grand 

Disburied  capital ; 

Masses  of  whiteness  and  of  gloom, 

The  darkly  bright  remains 

Of  desolate  palace,  empty  tomb, 

And  desecrated  fanes : 

For  in  the  ruins  of  old  hours, 

Remembrance  haply  sees 

Temples,  and  tombs,  and  palaces, 

Not  different  from  these. 


EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

CHRIST    IN   THE    TEMPEST. 

MIDNIGHT  was  on  the  mighty  deep, 
And  darkness  filled  the  boundless  sky, 

While  mid  the  raging  wind  was  heard 
The  sea-bird's  mournful  cry ; 

For  tempest  clouds  were  mustering  wrath 

Across  the  seaman's  trackless  path. 

It  came  at  length :  one  fearful  gust 
Rent  frWn  the  mast  the  shivering  sail, 

And  drove  the  helpless  bark  along, 
The  plaything  of  the  gale, 

While  fearfully  the  lightning's  glare 

Fell  on  the  pale  brows  gather'd  there. 


152  EMMA    C.    EMBURY. 

But  there  was  one  o'er  whose  bright  face 
Unmark'd  the  livid  lightnings  flash'd ; 

And  on  whose  stirless,  prostrate  form, 
Unfelt  the  sea-spray  dash'd ; 

For  mid  the  tempest  fierce  and  wild, 

He  slumber'd  like  a  wearied  child. 

Oh !  who  could  look  upon  that  face, 
And  feel  the  sting  of  coward  fear  1 

Though  hell's  fierce  demons  raged  around, 
Yet  heaven  itself  was  here  ; 

For  who  that  glorious  brow  could  see, 

Nor  own  a  present  Deity  1 

With  hurried  fear  they  press  around 
The  lowly  Saviour's  humble  bed, 

As  if  his  very  touch  had  power 
To  shield  their  souls  from  dread ; 

While  cradled  on  the  raging  deep, 

He  lay  in  calm  and  tranquil  sleep. 

Vainly  they  struggled  with  their  fears, 
But  wilder  still  the  tempest  woke, 

Till  from  their  full  and  o'erfraught  hearts 
The  voice  of  terror  broke  : 

"  Behold  !  we  sink  beneath  the  wave, 

We  perish,  Lord !  but  thou  canst  save." 

Slowly  he  rose ;  and  mild  rebuke 
Shone  in  his  soft  and 'heaven-lit  eye  : 

"  Oh  ye  of  little  faith,"  he  cried, 
"  Is  not  your  master  nigh  1 

Is  not  your  hope  of  succour  just  ? 

Why  know  ye  not  in  whom  ye  trust  1" 

He  turn'd  away,  and  conscious  power 

Dilated  his  majestic  form, 
As  o'er  the  boiling  sea  he  bent, 

The  ruler  of  the  storm  ; 


EMMA   C.    EMBURY.  153 

Earth  to  its  centre  felt  the  thrill, 

As  low  he  murmur'd,  "  Peace !  Be  still !" 

Hark  to  the  burst  of  meeting  waves, 

The  roaring  of  the  angry  sea ! 
A  moment  more,  and  all  is  hush'd 

In  deep  tranquillity ; 
While  not  a  breeze  is  near  to  break 
The  mirror'd  surface  of  the  lake. 

Then  on  the  stricken  hearts  of  all 

Fell  anxious  doubt  and  holy  awe, 
As  timidly  they  gazed  on  him 

Whose  will  was  nature's  law : 
"  What  man  is  this,"  they  cry,  "whose  word 
E'en  by  the  raging  sea  is  heard  V 


LINES    SUGGESTED    BY    THE    MORAVIAN    BURIAL-GROUND    AT 
BETHLEHEM. 

WHEN  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb 

This  heart  shall  xest, 
Oh !  lay  me  where  spring  flow'rets  bloom 

On  earth's  bright  breast. 

Oh !  ne'er  in  vaulted  chambers  lay 

My  lifeless  form ; 
Seek  not  of  such  mean,  worthless  prey 

To  cheat  the  worm. 

In  this  sweet  city  of  the  dead 

I  fain  would  sleep, 
Where  flowers  may  deck  my  narrow  bed, 

And  night  dews  weep. 

But  raise  not  the  sepulchral  stone 

To  mark  the  spot ; 
Enough,  if  by  thy  heart  alone 

Tis  ne'er  forgot. 


154  HENRY  PICKERING. 


HENRY  PICKERING. 

THE    LAST    DAYS    OF    AUTUMN 

HARK  to  the  sounding  gale !  how  through  the  soul 
It  vibrates,  and  in  thunder  seems  to  roll 
Along  the  mountains !    Loud  the  forest  moans, 
And,  naked  to  the  blast,  the  o'ermastering  spirit 
owns. 

Rustling,  the  leaves  are  rudely  hurried  by, 
Or  in  dark  eddies  whirl'd ;  while  from  on  high 
The  ruffian  Winds,  as  if  in  giant  mirth, 
Unseat  the  mountain  pine,  and  headlong  dash  to 
earth! 

With  crest  of  foam,  the  uplifted  flood  ho  more 
Flows  placidly  along  the  sylvan  shore ; 
But,  vex'd  to  madness,  heaves  its  turbid  wave, 
Threatening  to  leap  the  banks  it  whilom  loved 
lave  : 

And  in  the  angry  heavens,  where,  wheeling  low, 
The  sun  exhibits  yet  a  fitful  glow, 
The  clouds,  obedient  to  the  stormy  power, 
Or  shatter'd  fly  along,  or  still  more  darkly  lower. 

Amazement  seizes  all !  within  the  vale 
Shrinking,  the  mute  herd  snuff  the  shivering  gale ; 
The  while,  with  tossing  head  and  streaming  mane, 
The  horse  affrighted  bounds,  or  wildly  skims  the 
plain. 

Whither,  with  charms  to  Fancy  yet  so  dear, 
Whither  has  fled  the  lovely  infant  year  ? 
Where,  too,  the  groves  in  greener  pomp  array 'd? 
The  deep  and  solemn  gloom  of  the  inspiring  shade  ? 

The  verdant  heaven  that  once  the  woods  o'er- 
And  underneath  a  pensive  twilight  shed,    [spread, 


JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL.  155 

Is  shrivell'd  all :  dead  the  vine-mantled  bowers, 
And  wither'd  in  their  bloom  the  beautiful  young 
flowers  ! 

Mute,  too,  the  voice  of  Joy !  no  tuneful  bird 
Amid  the  leafless  forest  now  is  heard ; 
Nor  more  may  ploughboy's  laugh  the  bosom  cheer, 
Nor  in  the  velvet  glade  Love's  whisper  charm  the 
ear. 

But  lo,  the  ruthless  storm  its  force  hath  spent ; 
And  see  !  where  sinking  'neath  yon  cloudy  tent, 
The  sun  withdraws  his  last  cold,  feeble  ray, 
Abandoning  to  Night  his  short  and  dubious  sway. 

A  heavier  gloom  pervades  the  chilly  air ! 
Now  in  their  northern  caves  the  Winds  prepare 
The  nitrous  frost  to  sheet  with  dazzling  white, 
The  long-deserted  fields  at  the  return  of  light : 

Or  with  keen  icy  breath  they  may  glass  o'er 
The  restless  wave,  and  on  the  lucid  floor 
Let  fall  the  feathery  shower,  and  far  and  wide 
Involve  in  snowy  robe  the  land  and  fetter'd  tide ! 

Thus  shut  the  varied  scene !  and  thus,  in  turn, 
Oh  Autumn  !  thou  within  thine  ample  urn 
Sweep'st  all  earth's  glories. .  Ah,  for  one  brief  hour,. 
Spare  the  soft  virgin's  bloom  and  tender  human 
flower ! 


JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL. 


THE  PATRIARCHAL   AGE. 


OH  !  for  those  early  days,  when  patriarchs  dwelt 
In  pastoral  tents,  that  rose  beneath  the  palm, 

When  life  was  pure,  and  every  bosom  felt 
Unwarp'd  affection's  sweetest,  holiest  balm, 


156  JAMUS   G.    PERCIVAL. 

And  like  the  silent  scene  around  them,  calm, 
Years  stole  along  in  one  unruffled  flow  ; 

Their  hearts  aye  warbled  with  devotion's  psalm, 
And  as  they  saw  their  buds  around  them  blow, 
Their  keenly  glistening  eye  revealed  the  grateful 
glow. 

They  sat  at  evening,  when  their  gather'd  flocks 

Bleated  and  sported  by  the  palm-crowned  well, 
The  sun  was  glittering  on  the  pointed  rocks, 

And  long  and  wide  the  deepening  shadows  fell ; 

They  sang  their  hymn,  and  in  a  choral  swell 
They  raised  their  simple  voices  to  the  Power 

Who  smiled  along  the  fair  sky ;  they  would  dwell 
Fondly  and  deeply  on  his  praise  ;  that  hour 
Was  to  them,  as  to  flowers  that  droop  and  fade,  the 
shower. 

He  warm'd  them  in  the  sunbeams,  and  they  gazed 
In  wonder  on  that  kindling  fount  of  light ; 

And  as,  hung  on  the  glowing  west,  it  blazed 
In  brighter  glories,  with  a  full  delight 
They  pour'd  their  pealing  anthem,  and  when  night 

Lifted  her  silver  forehead,  and  the  moon 
Roll'd  through  the  blue  serenity,  in  bright 

But  softer  radiance,  they  bless'd  the  boon 

That  gave  those  hours  the  charm  without  the  fire  of 
noon. 

Spring  of  the  living  world,  the  dawn  of  nature, 
When  man  walk'd  forth  the  lord  of  all  below, 

Erect  and  godlike  in  his  giant  stature, 
Before  the  tainted  gales  of  vice  'gan  blow : 
His  conscience  spotless  as  the  new-fallen  snow, 

Pure  as  the  crystal  spouting  from  the  spring, 
He  aim'd  no  murderous  dagger,  drew  no  bow, 

But  at  the  soaring  of  the  eagle's  wing, 

The  gaunt  wolf's  stealthy  step,  the  lion's  ravening 
spring. 


JAMES    G.   PERCIVAL.  157 

With  brutes  alone  he  arm'd  himself  for  war ; 

Free  to  the  winds  his  long  locks  dancing  flew, 
And  at  his  prowling  enemy  afar, 

He  shot  his  death-shaft  from  the  nervy  yew ; 

In  morning's  mist  his  shrill-voiced  bugle  blew, 
And  with  the  rising  xsun  on  tall  rocks  strode, 

And,  bounding  through  the  gemm'd  and  sparkling, 

dew, 

The  rose  of  health,  that  in  his  full  cheek  glow'd, 
Told  of  the  pure  fresh  stream  that  there  enkindling 
flow'd. 

This  was  the  age  when  mind  was  all  on  fire, 
The  days  of  inspiration  when  the  soul, 

Warm'd,  heighten'd,  lifted,  burning  with  desire 
For  all  the  great  and  lovely,  to  the  goal 
Of  man's  essential  glory  rush'd  ;  then  stole 

The  sage  his  spark  from  heaven,  the  prophet  spake 
His  deep-toned  words  of  thunder,  as  when  roll 

The  peals  amid  the  clouds  :  words  that  would  break 

The  spirit's  leaden  sleep,  and  all  its  terrors  wake. 


CENTRE  of  light  and  energy !  thy  way 

Is  through  the  unknown  void ;  thou  hast  thy  throne, 
Morning,  and  evening,  and  at  noon  of  day, 
Far  in  the  blue,  untended  and  alone  : 
Ere  the  first-waken'd  airs  of  earth  had  blown, 
On  thou  didst  march,  triumphant  in  thy  light ; 
Then  thou  didst  send  thy  glance,  which  still  hath 

flown 

Wide  through  the  never-ending  worlds  of  night, 
And  yet  thy  full  orb  burns  with  flash  as  keen  ancf 
bright. 

O 


158  JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL. 

We  call  thee  Lord  of  Day,  and  thou  dost  give 
To  Earth  the  fire  that  animates  her  crust, 

And  wakens  all  the  forms  that  move  and  live, 
From  the  fine  viewless  mould  which  lurks  in  dust, 
To  him  who  looks  to  Heaven,  and  on  his  bust 

Bears  stamp'd  the  seal  of  God,  who  gathers  there 
Lines  of  deep  thought,  high  feeling,  daring  trust 

In  his  own  centred  powers,  who  aims  to  share 

In  all  his  soul  can  frame  of  wide,  and  great,  and  fair. 

Thy  path  is  high  in  Heaven ;  we  cannot  gaze 
On  the  intense  of  light  that  girds  thy  car ; 

There  is  a  crown  of  glory  in  thy  rays, 
Which  bears  thy  pure  divinity  afar, 
To  mingle  with  the  equal  light  of  star, 

For  thou,  so  vast  to  us,  art  in  the  whole 
One  of  the  sparks  of  night  that  fire  the  air, 

And  as  around  thy  centre  planets  roll, 

So  thou  too  hast  thy  path  around  the  central  soul. 

I  am  no  fond  idolater  to  thee, 

One  of  the  countless  multitude,  who  burn, 
As  lamps,  around  the  one  Eternity, 

In  whose  contending  forces  systems  turn 

Their  circles  round  that  seat  of  life,  the  urn 
Where  all  must  sleep,  if  matter  ever  dies  : 

Sight  fails  me  here,  but  fancy  can  discern 
With  the  wide  glance  of  her  all-seeing  eyes, 
Where,  in  the  heart  of  worlds,  the  ruling  Spirit  lies. 

And  thou,  too,  hast  thy  world,  and  unto  thee 
We  are  as  nothing ;  thou  goest  forth  alone, 

And  movest  through  the  wide  aerial  sea, 
Glad  as  a  conqueror  resting  on  his  throne 
From  a  new  victory,  where  he  late  had  shown 

Wider  his  power  to  nations ;  so  thy  light 

Comes  with  new  pomp,  as  if  thy  strength  had 
grown, 

With  each  revolving  day,  or  thou  at  night 

Had  lit  again  thy  fires,  and  thus  renew'd  thy  might. 


JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL.  159 

Age  o'er  thee  has  no  power :  thou  bringst  the  same 
Light  to  renew  the  morning,  as  when  first, 

If  not  eternal,  thou,  with  front  of  flame, 
On  the  dark  face  of  earth  in  glory  burst, 
And  warm'd  the  seas,  and  in  their  bosom  nursed 

The  earliest  things  of  life,  the  worm  and  shell ; 
Till  through  the  sinking  ocean  mountains  pierced, 

And  then  came  forth  the  land  whereon  we  dwell, 

Rear'd  like  a  magic  fane  above  the  watery  swell. 

And  there  thy  searching  heat  awoke  the  seeds 
Of  all  that  gives  a  charm  to  earth,  and  lends 

An  energy  to  nature ;  all  that  feeds 
On  the  rich  mould,  and  then  in  bearing  bends 
Its  fruits  again  to  earth,  wherein  it  blends 

The  last  and  first  of  life  ;  of  all  who  bear 
Their  forms  in  motion,  where  the  spirit  tends 

Instinctive,  in  their  common  good  to  share,    [there. 

Which  lies  in  things  that  breathe,  or  late  were  living 

They  live  in  thee :  without  thee  all  were  dead 
And  dark,  no  beam  had  lighted  on  the  waste, 

But  one  eternal  night  around  had  spread 
Funereal  gloom,  and  coldly  thus  defaced 
This  Eden,  which  thy  fairy  hand  had  graced 

With  such  uncounted  beauty ;  all  that  blows 
In  the  fresh  air  of  Spring,  and,  growing,  braced 

Its  form  to  manhood,  when  it  stands  and  glows 

In  the  full-temper'd  beam,  that  gladdens  as  it  goes. 

Thou  lopkest  on  the  Earth,  and  then  it  smiles ; 

Thy  light  is  hid,  and  all  things  droop  and  mourn ; 
Laughs  the  wide  sea  around  her  budding  isles, 

When  through  their  heaven  thy  changing  car  is 
borne ; 

Thou  wheel'st  away  thy  flight,  the  woods  are  shorn 
Of  all  their  waving  locks,  and  storms  awake  ; 

All,  that  was  once  so  beautiful,  is  torn 
By  the  wild  winds  which  plough  the  lonely  lake, 
And  in  their  maddening  rush  the  crested  mountains 


160  JAMES   G.    PERCIVAL. 

The  earth  lies  buried  in  a  shroud  of  snow  ; 

Life  lingers,  and  would  die,  but  thy  return 
Gives  to  their  gladden'd  hearts  an  overflow 

Of  all  the  power  that  brooded  in  the  urn       [spurn 

Of  their  chill'd  frames,  and  then  they  proudly 
All  bands  that  would  confine,  and  give  to  air 

Hues,  fragrance,  shapes  of  beauty,  till  they  burn, 
When  on  a  dewy  morn  thou  dartest  there          [fair. 
Rich  waves  of  gold  to  wreath  with  fairer  light  the 

The  vales  are  thine  ;  and  when  the  touch  of  Spring 
Thrills  them,  and  gives  them  gladness,  in  thy  light 

They  glitter,  as  the  glancing  swallow's  wing 
Dashes  the  water  in  his  winding  flight, 
And  leaves  behind  a  wave  that  crinkles  bright, 

And  widens  outward  to  the  pebbled  shore — 
The  vales  are  thine :  and  when  they  wake  from 
night, 

The  dews  that  bend  the  grass  tips,  twinkling  o'er 

Their  soft  and  oozy  beds,  look  upward  and  adore. 

The  hills  are  thine :  they  catch  thy  newest  beam, 
And  gladden  in  thy  parting,  where  the  wood 

Flames  out  in  every  leaf,  and  drinks  the  stream 
That  flows  from  out  thy  fulness,  as  a  flood 
Bursts  from  an  unknown  land,  and  rolls  the  food 

Of  nations  in  its  waters ;  so  thy  rays 
Flow  and  give  brighter  tints,  than  ever  bud, 

When  a  clear  sheet  of  ice  reflects  a  blaze       [plays. 

Of  many  twinkling  gems,  as  every  gloss'd  bough 

Thine  are  the  mountains,  where  they  purely  lift 

Snows  that  have  never  wasted  in  a  sky 
Which  hath  no  stain ;  below  the  storm  may  drift 

Its  darkness,  and  the  thunder-gust  roar  by ; 

Aloft  in  thy  eternal  smile  they  lie, 
Dazzling  but  cold ;  thy  farewell  glance  looks  there ; 

And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty  die, 
Girt  round  them  as  a  rosy  belt,  they  bear 
Into  the  high  dark  vault  a  brow  that  still  is  fair. 


JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL.  161 

The  clouds  are  thine,  and  all  their  magic  hues 
Are  pencill'd  by  thee ;  when  thou  bendest  low, 

Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand  imbues 
Their  waving  fold  with  such  a  perfect  glow 
Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures  throw 

Shame  on  the  proudest  art ;  the  tender  stain 
Hung  round  the  verge  of  Heaven,  that  has  a  bow 

Girds  the  wide  world,  and  in  their  blended  chain 

All  tints  to  the  deep  gold  that  flashes  in  thy  train  : 

These  are  thy  trophies,  and  thou  bendst  thy  arch, 
The  sign  of  triumph,  in  a  seven-fold  twine, 

Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  on  its  march; 
And  there  the  glories  of  thy  light  combine, 
And  form  with  perfect  curve  a  lifted  line, 

Striding  the  earth  and  air ;  man  looks  and  tells 
How  Peace  and  Mercy  in  its  beauty  shine, 

And  how  the  heavenly  messenger  impels 

Her  glad  wings  on  the  path,  that  thus  in  ether  swells, 

The  ocean  is  thy  vassal :  thou  dost  sway 

His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they  go 
Where  thou  in  Heaven  dost  guide  them  on  their  way, 

Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  flow ; 

Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they  glow ; 
They  take  them  wings,  and  spring  aloft  in  air, 

And  change  to  clouds,  and  then,  dissolving,  throw 
Their  treasures  back  to  earth,  and,  rushing,  tear 
The  mountain  and  the  vale,  as  proudly  on  they  bear. 

I  too  have  been  upon  thy  rolling  breast, 
Widest  of  waters !    I  have  seen  thee  lie 

Calm,  as  an  infant  pillow'd  in  its  rest 

On  a  fond  mother's  bosom,  when  the  sky, 
Not  smoother,  gave  the  deep  its  azure  die, 

Till  a  new  Heaven  was  arch'd  and  glass'd  below  ; 
And  then  the  clouds,  that,  gay  in  sunset,  fly, 

Cast  on  it  such  a  stain,  it  kindled  so, 

As  in  the  cheek  of  youth  the  living  roses  grow, 
O2 


162  JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL. 

I  too  have  seen  thee  on  thy  surging  path, 
When  the  night  tempest  met  thee :  thou  didst  dash 

Thy  white  arms  high  in  Heaven,  as  if  in  wrath 
Threatening  the  angry  sky ;  thy  waves  did  lash 
The  labouring  vessel,  and  with  deadening  crash 

Rush  madly  forth  to  scourge  its  groaning  sides ; 
Onward  thy  billows  came  to  meet  and  clash 

In  a  wild  warfare,  till  the  lifted  tides  [rides. 

Mingled  their  yesty  tops,  where  the  dark  storm-cloud 

In  thee,  first  light,  the  bounding  ocean  smiles, 
When  the  quick  winds  uprear  it  in  a  swell, 

That  rolls  in  glittering  green  around  the  isles, 
Where  ever-springing  fruits  and  blossoms  dwell  | 
Oh !  with  a  joy  no  gifted  tongue  can  tell, 

I  hurry  o'er  the  waters,  when  the  sail 

Swells  tensely,  and  the  light  keel  glances  well 

Over  the  curling  billow,  and  the  gale 

Comes  off  from  spicy  groves  to  tell  its  winning  tale. 

The  soul  is  thine :  of  old  thou  wert  the  power 

Who  gave  the  poet  life,  and  I  in  thee 
Feel  my  heart  gladden  at  the  holy  hour 

When  thou  art  sinking  in  the  silent  sea ; 

Or  when  I  climb  the  height,  and  wander  free 
In  thy  meridian  glory,  for  the  air 

Sparkles  and  burns  in  thy  intensity, 
I  feel  thy  light  within  me,  and  I  share 
In  the  full  glow  of  soul  thy  spirit  kindles  there. 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE. 

HE  comes  not ;  I  have  watched  the  moon  go  down, 
But  yet  he  comes  not.     Once  it  was  not  so. 
He  thinks  not  how  these  bitter  tears  do  flow, 
The  while  he  holds  his  riot  in  that  town. 
Yet  he  will  come  and  chide,  and  I  shall  weep ; 
And  he  will  wake  my  infant  from  its  sleep, 


JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL.  163 

To  blend  its  feeble  wailing  with  my  tears. 

Oh !  how  I  love  a  mother's  watch  to  keep, 

Over  those  sleeping  eyes,  that  smile,  which  cheers 

My  heart,  though  sunk  in  sorrow,  fix'd  and  deep. 

I  had  a  husband  once,  who  loved  me  ;  now 

He  ever  wears  a  frown  upon  his  brow, 

And  feeds  his  passion  on  a  wanton's  lip, 

As  bees,  from  laurel  flowers,  a  poison  sip ; 

But  yet  I  cannot  hate.     Oh  !  there  were  hours, 

When  I  could  hang  for  ever  on  his  eye, 

And  Time,  who  stole  with  silent  swiftness  by, 

Strew'd,  as  he  hurried  on,  his  path  with  flowers. 

J  loved  him  then ;  he  loved  me  too.     My  heart 

Still  finds  its  fondness  kindle  if  he  smile  ; 

The  memory  of  our  loves  will  ne'er  depart ; 

And  though  he  often  sting  me  with  a  dart, 

Venom'd  and  barb'd,  and  waste  upon  the  vile 

Caresses  Which  his  babe  and  mine  should  share — 

Though  he  should  spurn  me,  I  will  camly  bear 

His  madness ;  and  should  sickness  come,  and  lay 

Its  paralyzing  hand  upon  him,  then 

I  would,  with  kindness,  all  my  wrongs  repay, 

Until  the  penitent  should  weep,  and  say 

How  injured  and  how  faithful  I  had  been. 


THE    CORAL    GROVE. 

DEEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  goldfish  rove, 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine  ; 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl  shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow; 


164  JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL. 

The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 

And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air  : 

There  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 

And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 

To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter  : 

There,  with  a  light  and 'easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea ; 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 

Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea  : 

And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 

And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own : 

And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 

When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore ; 

Then  far  below  in  the  peaceful  sea, 

The  purple  mullet  and  goldfish  rove, 

Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 

Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


CLOUDS. 

YE  clouds,  who  are  the  ornament  of  heaven, 
Who  give  to  it  its  gayest  shadowings, 
And  its  most  awful  glories  ;  ye  who  roll 
In  the  dark  tempest,  or  at  dewy  evening 
Hang  low  in  tenderest  beauty ;  ye  who,  ever 
Changing  your  Protean  aspects,  now  are  gather'd, 
Like  fleecy  piles,  when  the  mid  sun  is  brightest, 
Even  in  the  height  of  heaven,  and  there  repose, 
Solemnly  calm,  without  a  visible  motion, 
Hour  after  hour,  looking  upon  the  earth 


JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL.  165 

With  a  serenest  smile  :  or  ye  who  rather, 

Heap'd  in  those  sulphury  masses,  heavily 

Jutting  above  their  bases,  like  the  smoke 

Poured  from  a  furnace  or  a  roused  volcano, 

Stand  on  the  dun  horizon,  threatening 

Lightning  and  storm  ;  who,  lifted  from  the  hills, 

March  onward  to  the  zenith,  ever  darkening, 

And  heaving  into  more  gigantic  towers 

And  mountainous  piles  of  blackness  ;  who  then  roar 

With  the  collected  winds  within  your  womb, 

Or  the  far  uttered  thunders  ;  who  ascend 

Swifter  and  swifter,  till  wide  overhead 

Your  vanguards  curl  and  toss  upon  the  tempest 

Like  the  stirred  ocean  on  a  reef  of  rocks 

Just  topping  o'er  its  waves,  while  deep  below 

The  pregnant  mass  of  vapour  and  of  flame 

Rolls  with  an  awful  pomp,  and  grimly  lowers, 

Seeming  to  the  struck  eye  of  fear  the  car 

Of  an  offended  spirit,  whose  swart  features 

Glare  through  the  sooty  darkness,  fired  with  ven- 

And  ready  with  uplifted  hand  to  smite  [geance, 

And  scourge  a  guilty  nation  ;  ye  who  lie, 

After  the  storm  is  over,  far  away. 

Crowning  the  drippling  forests  with  the  arch 

Of  beauty,  such  as  lives  alone  in  heaven, 

Bright  daughter  of  the  sun,  bending  around 

From  mountain  unto  mountain  like  the  wreath 

Of  victory,  or  like  a  banner  telling 

Of  joy  and  gladness  ;  ye  who  round  the  moon 

Assemble,  when  she  sits  in  the  mid  sky 

In  perfect  brightness,  and  encircle  her 

With  a  fair  wreath  of  all  aerial  dyes  ; 

Ye  who,  thus  hovering  round  her,  shine  like  mount- 

Whose  tops  are  never  darken'd,  but  remain,       [ains 

Centuries  and  countless  ages,  reared  for  temples 

Of  purity  and  light ;  or  ye  who  crowd 

To  hail  the  newborn  day,  and  hang  for  him, 

Above  his  ocean  couch,  a  canopy 

Of  all  inimitable  hues  and  colours, 


166  JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN. 

Such  as  are  only  pencill'd  by  the  hands 

Of  the  unseen  ministers  of  earth  and  air, 

Seen  only  in  the  tinting  of  the  clouds, 

And  the  soft  shadowing  of  plumes  and  flowers ; 

Or  ye  who,  following  in  his  funeral  train, 

Light  up  your  torches  at  his  sepulchre, 

And  open  on  us  through  the  clefted  hills 

Far  glances  into  glittering  worlds  beyond 

The  twilight  of  the  grave,  where  all  is  light, 

Golden  and  glorious  light,  too  full  and  high 

For  mortal  eye  to  gaze  on,  stretching  out 

Brighter  and  ever  brighter,  till  it  spread, 

Like  one  wide  radiant  ocean  without  bounds, 

One  infinite  sea  of  glory :  Thus,  ye  clouds, 

And  in  innumerable  other  shapes 

Of  greatness  or  of  beauty,  ye  attend  us, 

To  give  to  the  wide  arch  above  us  Life 

And  all  its  changes.    Thus  it  is  to  us 

A  volume  full  of  wisdom,  but  without  ye 

One  awful  uniformity  had  ever, 

With  too  severe  a  majesty,  oppress'd  us. 


JAMES  WALLIS  EASTBURN. 

EVENING  ON  NARRAGANSET  BAY*. 

THE  sun  is  sinking  from  the  sky 
In  calm  and  cloudless  majesty ; 
And  cooler  hours,  with  gentle  sway, 
Succeed  the  fiery  heat  of  day. 

*  This  and  the  succeeding  specimens  of  Eastburn's  poetry 
are  taken  from  the  narrative  poem  of  Yamoyden,  written  jointly 
by  him  and  Sands.  The  different  portions  of  that  work  have 
never  been  assigned  to  the  respective  authors,  and  the  merit  of 
these  extracts  must  therefore  be  shared  between  them,  except 
perhaps,  in  the  case  of  the  "  Song  of  an  Indian  Mother,"  which 
we  have  somewhere  seen  claimed  as  the  sole  property  of  East- 
burn. 


JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN.  167 

Forest,  and  shore,  and  rippling  tide, 
Confess  the  evening's  influence  wide, 
Seen  lovelier  in  that  fading  light, 
That  heralds  the  approaching  night : 
That  magic  colouring  nature  throws, 
To  deck  her  beautiful  repose  ; 
When,  floating  on  the  breeze  of  even, 
Long  clouds  of  purple  streak  the  heaven. 
With  brighter  tints  of  glory  blending, 
And  darker  hues  of  night  descending. 
While  hastening  to  its  shady  rest 
Each  weary  songster  seeks  its  nest, 
Chanting  a  last,  a  farewell  lay, 
As  gloomier  falls  the  parting  day.- 

Broad  Narraganset's  bosom  blue 
Has  shone  with  every  varying  hue  ; 
The  mystic  alchymy  of  even 
Its  rich  delusions  all  has  given. 
The  silvery  sheet  unbounded  spread,- 
First  melting  from  the  waters  fled  ; 
Next  the  wide  path  of  beaten  gold 
Flashing  with  fiery  sparkles  roll'd ; 
As  all  its  gorgeous  glories  died, 
An  amber  tinge  blush'd  o'er  the  tide  ; 
Faint  and  more  faint,  as  more  remote,. 
The  lessening  ripples  peaceful  float ; 
And  now,  one  ruby  line  alone 
Trembles,  is  paler,  and  is  gone ; 
And  from  the  blue  wave  fades  away 
The  last  life-tint  of  dying  day ! 
In  darkness  veil'd,  was  seen  no  more 
Connanicut's  extended  shore ; 
Each  little  isle  with  bosom  green, 
Descending  mists  impervious  screen  •? 
One  gloomy  shade  o'er  all  the  woods 
Of  forest-fringed  Aquetnet  broods  ; 
Where  solemn  oak  was  seen  before 
Beside  the  rival  sycamore. 


168  JAMES   WALLIS   EASTBURN. 

Or  pine  and  cedar  lined  the  height, 
All  in  one  livery  brown  were  dight. 

But  lo  !  with  orb  serene  on  high, 

The  round  moon  climbs  the  eastern  sky ; 

The  stars  all  quench  their  feebler  rays 

Before  her  universal  blaze. 

Round  moon  !  how  sweetly  dost  thou  smile, 

Above  that  green  reposing  isle  ; 

Soft  cradled  in  the  illumined  bay, 

Where  from  its  banks  the  shadows  seem 

Melting  in  filmy  light  away. 

Far  does  thy  temper'd  lustre  stream, 

Checkering  the  tufted  groves  on  high, 

While  glens  in  gloom  beneath  them  lie. 

Oft  sheeted  with  the  ghostly  beam, 

Mid  the  thick  forest's  mass  of  shade, 

The  shingled  roof  is  gleaming  white, 

Where  labour,  in  the  cultured  glade, 

Has  all  the  wild  a  garden  made. 

And  there  with  silvery  tassels  bright 

The  serried  maize  is  waving  slow, 

While  fitful  shadows  come  and  go, 

Swift  o'er  its  undulating  seas, 

As  gently  breathes  the  evening  breeze. 

Solemn  it  is,  in  green  woods  deep, 
That  magic  light  o'er  nature's  sleep ; 
Where  in  long  ranks  the  pillars  gray 
Aloft  their  mingling  structures  bear — 
Mingling,  in  gloom  or  tracery  fair, 
Where  find  the  unbroken  beams  their  way — 
Or  through  close  trellis  flickering  stray, 
While  sheeny  leaflets  here  and  there 
Flutter,  with  momentary  glow. 
'Tis  wayward  life  reveal'd  below, 
With  checker'd  gleams  of  joy  and  wo ! 
And  those  pure  realms  above  that  shine, 
So  chaste,  so  vivid,  so  divine, 


JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN.  169 

Are  the  sole  type  that  heaven  has  shown 
Of  those  more  lovely  realms,  its  own ! 

There  is  no  sound  amid  the  trees, 
Save  the  faint  brush  of  rustling  breeze ; 
Save  insect  sentinels,  that  still 
Prolong  their  constant  'larum  shrill, 
And  answer  all,  from  tree  to  tree, 
With  one  monotonous  revelry. 


SONG   OF   AN   INDIAN   MOTHER. 

"  SLEEP,  child  of  my  love !  be  thy  slumber  as  light 

As  the  redbird's  that  nestles  secure  on  the  spray ', 
Be  the  visions  that  visit  thee  fairy  and  bright 

As  the  dewdrops  that  sparkle  around  with  the  ray  \ 
Oh,  soft  flows  the  breath  from  thine  innocent  breast ; 

In  the  wild  wood,  sleep  cradles  in  roses  thy  head ; 
But  her  who  protects  thee,  a  wanderer  unbless'd, 

He  forsakes,  or  surrounds  with  his  phantoms  of 

dread. 
I  fear  for  thy  father !  why  stays  he  so  long 

On  the  shores  where  the  wife  of  the  giant  was 

thrown, 
And  the  sailor  oft  linger'd  to  hearken  her  song, 

So  sad  o'er  the  wave,  ere  she  harden'd  to  stone. 
He  skims  the  blue  tide  in  his  birchen  canoe, 

Where  the  foe  in  the  moonbeams  his  path  may 

descry ; 
The  ball  to  its  scope  may  speed  rapid  and  true, 

And  lost  in  the  wave  be  thy  father's  death  cry ! 
The  POWER  that  is  round  us,  whose  presence  is  near, 

In  the  gloom  and  the  solitude  felt  by  the  soul, 
Protect  that  frail  bark  in  its  lonely  career, 

And  shield  thee  when  roughly  life's  billows  shall 
roll." 

P 


170  JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN. 


PHILIP'S  DREAM. 

AND  on  this  night,  whose  parting  shades 
Shall  see  the  avengers  lift  their  blades, 
And  bring  relentless  fury,  fraught 
With  many  an  insult's  goading  thought, 

The  outlaw  Sachem  slept; 
The  while  his  scanty  band  around, 
Low  in  the  swamp's  unequal  ground, 

Their  mournful  vigils  kept. 
Tall  trees  o'erthrown  their  bulwark  made, 
While  rude,  luxuriant  vines  o'erspread, 

Conceal'd  their  lurking-place ; 
There,  now  to  feeble  numbers  worn, 
In  strength  o'erspent,  in  hope  forlorn, 
Shrunk,  trembling  for  the  coming  morn, 

The  Wampanoag  race. 

Mothers  and  widows  sad  were  then 

Hidden  within  that  gloomy  fen ; 

Left  for  a  space  by  war,  to  mourn 

Each  sacred  bond  asunder  torn. 

Perchance  they  thought  of  many  a  scene 

Departed,  to  return  no  more  ; 

How,  when  the  hunter's  toil  was  o'er, 

And  dress'd  his  frugal  meal  had  been, 

His  children  cluster'd  round  his  knee. 

To  hear  the  tales  of  former  days, 

And  learn  what  men  should  strive  to  be, 

While  listening  to  the  warrior's  praise : 

And  she,  thrice  happy  parent !  sate, 

Well  pleased,  beside  her  honour'd  mate  ; 

What  time  gray  eve  its  welcome  hue 

O'er  distant  hills  and  forests  threw : 

Nor  idle  then,  with  dexterous  hand, 

She  wrought  the  glittering  wampum  band ; 

Or  loved  the  silken  grass  to  braid ; 

Or  through  the  deerskin,  smooth  and  strong/ 

Weaving  the  many-colour'd  thong, 

Her  hunter's  comely  sandals  made. 


JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN.  171 

This  they  recall'd  ;  and  marvell'd  they, 
When  bounteous  earth  is  wide  and  free, 
Why  man.  whose  life  is  for  a  day, 
So  much  in  love  with  wo  should  be ! 

He  slept,  yet  not  the  spirit  slept ; 

Her  feverish  vigil  memory  kept ; 

In  motley  visions  on  her  eye, 

The  phantom  host  of  dreams  pass'd  by. 

Tradition,  meet  for  vulgar  faith, 

Has  told  of  threats  of  coming  skaith, 

Spoke  by  the  Evil  One,  who  came, 

This  eve,  his  destined  prey  to  claim, 

In  form,  as  when  at  noon  of  night, 

He  met  him  on  the  mountain's  height : 

O'er  the  gray  rock  the  fiend  outspread 

His  sable  pinions  as  he  fled, 

And,  ere  the  sounding  air  he  cleft,  , 

His  foot  gigantic  impress  left. 

Such  superstition's  idle  tale — 

But  let  the  minstrel's  lore  prevail. 

He  saw  the  world  of  souls ;  and  there 
Brave  men  and  beauteous  women  were  : 
Fair  forms  to  chiefs  of  godlike  mien, 
Reposing  in  their  arbours  green, 
Supplied  the  spicy  bowls  they  quaff'd, 
And  round  them  danced,  and  joyous  laugh'd; 
While  aye  the  warriors  smiled  to  see 
Those  lovely  creatures  in  their  glee ; 
And  pledged  them  in  the  sparkling  cup ; 
Or  breathed  their  fragrant  incense  up  ; 
Grateful  and  pure,  'twas  seen  to  flow 
From  calumets  like  stainless  snow. 
Apart  reclined  in  kingly  state, 
The  ancient  Massasoiet  sate, 
And  earnest  with  Uncompeon  old, 
Speech  grave,  but  pleasant,  seem'd  to  hold ; 
Uncompoen,  slain  in  recent  fight, 
Contending  for  his  nephew's  right. 


172  JAMES    WALLIS    EASTBURN. 

Just  from  the  woods,  like  hunter  dight, 
The  gallant  Ouamsutta  came ;' 
Bearing  behind  his  plenteous  game, 
In  order  moved  the  warrior's  train  ; 
Joyous  his  bearing  was,  and  free, 
As  if  fatigue,  and  wounds,  and  pain, 
In  that  bless'd  world  could  never  be  ; 
His  buskins  trapp'd  with  glittering  gold, 
His  floating  mantle's  graceful  fold 

Clasp'd  with  a  sparkling  gem ; 
Dazzling  his  cincture's  radiance  gleam'd, 
Woven  from  the  heavenly  bow  it  seemM, 
And  like  the  sun-rays  danced  and  stream'd 

His  feathery  diadem. 
A  spear  with  silver  tipp'd  he  bore ; 
The  gayly-tinkling  rings  before, 

The  quiver  rattling  on  his  back, 
His  buoyant  frame  and  kindling  eye, 
The  thrilling  pulse  of  transport  high, 

The  sense  of  power  and  pleasure  spake. 
And  one  and  all  the  Sachem  knew, 
When  near  their  blissful  bower  he  drew ; 
And  clapp'd  their  hands  with  joy  to  see 
The  hero  join  their  company. 
And  strains  of  softest  music  round, 
From  flutes  and  tabors,  with  the  sound 
Of  voices,  sweet  as  sweetest  bird, 
To  greet  the  entering  guest  were  heard. 
"  Welcome,"  they  sung,  "  thy  toils  are  done, 
Thy  battles  fought,  thy  rest  is  won ; 
And  welcome  to  the  world  thou  art, 
Where  kindred  souls  shall  never  part ; 
Honour  on  earth  shall  valour  have, 
And  joy  with  us  attends  the  brave." 

That  ravishing  dream  was  rapt  away, 
Vanish'd  the  forms,  the  music  died ; 
And  changeful  fancy's  wayward  sway 
Visions  of  darker  hue  supplied. 


JOHN   PIERPONT.  173 

O'er  frozen  plains  he  seem'd  to  go, 
Mid  driving  sleet  and  blinding  snow. 
Then  Assawomsett's  lake  he  knew, 
And  dim  descried,  the  tempest  through, 
Apostate  Sausaman  arise ; 
Stiff  were  his  gory  locks  with  ice, 

And  mangled  was  his  form  ; 
It  tower'd  aloft  to  giant  size ; 
Fierce  shone  the  fury  of  his  eyes, 

Like  lightning  through  the  storm. 
He  cried,  "  My  spirit  hath  no  home ! 
A  weary,  wandering  ghost  I  roam. 
This  night  the  avengers  lift  the  blade, 
And  my  foul  murder  shall  be  paid !" 


JOHN  PIERPONT. 

THE   POWER    OF   MUSIC. 

HEAR  yon  poetic  pilgrim*  of  the  West 
Chant  Music's  praise,  and  to  her  power  attest ; 
Who  now,  in  Florida's  untrodden  woods, 
Bedecks,  with  vines  of  jessamine,  her  floods, 
And  flowery  bridges  o'er  them  loosely  throws 
Who  hangs  the  canvass  where  Atala  glows, 
On  the  live  oak,  in  floating  drapery  shrouded, 
That  like  a  mountain  rises,  lightly  clouded  : 
Who,  for  the  son  of  Outalissi,  twines 
Beneath  the  shade  of  ever- whispering  pines 
A  funeral  wreath,  to  bloom  upon  the  moss 
That  Time  already  sprinkles  on  the  cross 
Raised  o'er  the  grave  where  his  young  virgin  sleeps, 
And  Superstition  o'er  her  victim  weeps ; 
Whom  now  the  silence  of  the  dead  surrounds, 
Among  Scioto's  monumental  mounds ; 

*  Chateaubriand. 


174  JOHN   PIERPONT. 

Save  that,  at  times,  the  musing  pilgrim  hears 
A  crumbling  oak  fall  with  the  weight  of  years, 
To  swell  the  mass  that  Time  and  Ruin  throw 
O'er  chalky  bones  that  mouldering  lie  below, 
By  virtues  unembalm'd,  unstain'd  by  crimes, 
Lost  in  those  towering  tombs  of  other  times ; 
For,  where  no  bard  has  cherished  Virtue's  flame, 
No  ashes  sleep  in  the  warm  sun  of  Fame. 
With  sacred  lore  this  traveller  beguiles 
His  weary  way,  while  o'er  him  Fancy  smiles. 
Whether  he  kneels  in  venerable  groves, 
Or  through  the  wide  and  green  savanna  roves, 
His  heart  leaps  lightly  on  each  breeze,  that  bears 
The  faintest  breath  of  Idumea's  airs. 

Now  he  recalls  the  lamentable  wail 
That  pierced  the  shades  of  Rama's  palmy  vale, 
When  Murder  struck,  throned  on  an  infant's  bier, 
A  note  for  Satan's  and  for  Herod's  ear. 
Now  on  a  bank,  o'erhung  with  waving  wood, 
Whose  falling  leaves  flit  o'er  Ohio's  flood, 
The  pilgrim  stands ;  and  o'er  his  memory  rushes 
The  mingled  tide  of  tears  and  blood,  that  gushes 
Along  the  valleys  where  his  childhood  stray'd, 
And  round  the  temples  where  his  fathers  pray'd. 
How  fondly  then,  from  all  but  Hope  exiled, 
To  Zion's  wo  recurs  Religion's  child ! 
He  sees  the  tear  of  Judah's  captive  daughters 
Mingle,  in  silent  flow,  with  Babel's  waters  ; 
While  Salem's  harp,  by  patriot  pride  unstrung, 
Wrapp'd  in  the  mist  that  o'er  the  river  hung, 
Felt  but  the  breeze  that  wanton'd  o'er  the  billow, 
And  the  long,  sweeping  fingers  of  the  willow. 

And  could  not  Music  sooth  the  captive's  wo  1 
But  should  that  harp  be  strung  for  Judah's  foe  ? 

While  thus  the  enthusiast  roams  along  the  stream, 
Balanced  between  a  revery  and  a  dream, 


JOHN   PIERPONT.  175 

Backward  he  springs;   and,  through  his  bounding 

heart, 

The  cold  and  curdling  poison  seems  to  dart. 
For,  in  the  leaves,  beneath  a  quivering  brake, 
Spinning  his  death-note,  lies  a  coiling  snake, 
Just  in  the  act,  with  greenly  venom'd  fangs, 
To  strike  the  foot  that  heedless  o'er  him  hangs. 
Bloated  with  rage,  on  spiral  folds  he  rides ; 
His  rough  scales  shiver  on  his  spreading  sides  ; 
Dusky  and  dim  his  glossy  neck  becomes, 
And  freezing  poisons  thicken  on  his  gums  ; 
His  parch'd  and  hissing  throat  breathes  hot  and  dry ; 
A  spark  of  hell  lies  burning  on  his  eye  : 
While,  like  a  vapour,  o'er  his  writhing  rings, 
Whirls  his  light  tail,  that  threatens  while  it  sings. 

Soon  as  dumb  Fear  removes  her  icy  fingers 
From  off  the  heart,  where  gazing  wonder  lingers, 
The  pilgrim,  shrinking  from  a  doubtful  fight, 
Aware  of  danger,  too,  in  sudden  flight, 
From  his  soft  flute  throws  Music's  air  around, 
And  meets  his  foe  upon  enchanted  ground. 
See !  as  the  plaintive  melody  is  flung, 
The  lightning  flash  fades  on  the  serpent's  tongue  ; 
The  uncoiling  reptile  o'er  each  shining  fold 
Throws  changeful  clouds  of  azure,  green,  and  gold ; 
A  softer  lustre  twinkles  in  his  eye  ; 
His  neck  is  burnish'd  with  a  glossier  dye ; 
His  slippery  scales  grow  smoother  to  the  sight, 
And  his  relaxing  circles  roll  in  light. 
Slowly  the  charm  retires  :  with  waving  sides, 
Along  its  track  the  graceful  listener  glides ; 
While  Music  throws  her  silver  cloud  around, 
And  bears  her  votary  off  in  magic  folds  of  sound. 


176  JOHN   P1ERPONT. 


FOR    A    CELEBRATION    OF    THE    MASSACHUSETTS    MECHANIC?' 
CHARITABLE    ASSOCIATION. 

LOUD  o'er  thy  savage  child, 

Oh  God,  the  night- wind  roar'd, 
As,  houseless,  in  the  wild 
He  bow'd  him  and  adored. 
Thou  saw'st  him  there, 
As  to  the  sky 
He  raised  his  eye 
.;  In  fear  and  prayer. 

Thine  inspiration  came ! 

And,  grateful  for  thine  aid, 
An  altar  to  thy  name 
He  built  beneath  the  shade, 
The  limbs  of  larch 
That  darken'd  round, 
He  bent  and  bound 
In  many  an  arch ; 

Till  in  a  sylvan  fane 

Went  up  the  voice  of  prayer, 
And  music's  simple  strain 
Arose  in  worship  there. 
The  arching  boughs, 
The  roof  of  leaves 
That  summer  weaves, 
O'erheard  his  vows. 

Then  beam'd  a  brighter  day ; 

And  Salem's  holy  height 
And  Greece  in  glory  lay 
Beneath  the  kindling  light. 
Thy  temple  rose 
On  Salem's  hill, 
While  Grecian  skill 
Adorn'd  thy  foes. 


JOHN    PIERPONT.  177 

Along  those  rocky  shores, 
Along  those  olive  plains, 
Where  pilgrim  Genius  pores 
O'er  Art's  sublime  remains, 
Long  colonnades 
Of  snowy  white 
Look'd  forth  in  light 
Through  classic  shades. 

Forth  from  the  quarry  stone 

The  marble  goddess  sprung ; 
And,  loosely  round  her  thrown, 
Her  marble  vesture  hung ; 
And  forth  from  cold 
And  sunless  mines 
Came  silver  shrines 
And  gods  of  gold. 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  burn'd ! 

And,  where  the  Stoic  trod, 
The  altar  was  o'erturn'd, 

Raised  "  to  an  unknown  God." 
And  now  there  are 
No  idol  fanes 
On  all  the  plains 
Beneath  that  star. 

To  honour  thee,  dread  Power ! 

Our  strength  and  skill  combine  ; 
And  temple,  tomb,  and  tower 
Attest  these  gifts  divine. 
A  swelling  dome 
For  pride  they  gild, 
For  peace  they  build 
An  humbler  home. 

By  these  our  fathers'  host 

Was  led  to  victory  first, 
When  on  our  guardless  coast 

The  cloud  of  battle  burst, 


178  JOHN   PIERPONT. 

Through  storm  and  spray, 
By  these  controlPd, 
Our  navies  hold 

Their  thundering  way. 

Great  Source  of  every  art ! 

Our  homes,  our  pictured  halls, 
Our  throng'd  and  busy  mart, 
That  lifts  its  granite  walls, 
And  shoots  to  heaven 
Its  glittering  spires, 
To  catch  the  fires 
Of  morn  and  even ; 

These,  and  the  breathing  forms 

The  brush  or  chisel  gives, 
With  this  when  marble  warms, 
With  that  when  canvass  lives ; 
These  all  combine 
In  countless  ways 
To  swell  thy  praise, 
For  all  are  thine. 


THE    EXILE    AT    REST. 

His  falchion  flash'd  along  the  Nile  ; 

His  hosts  he  led  through  Alpine  snows  ; 
O'er  Moscow's  towers,  that  shook  the  while, 

His  eagle  flag  unroll'd— and  froze. 

Here  sleeps  he  now  alone  :  not  one 
Of  all  the  kings  whose  crowns  he  gave, 

Nor  sire,  nor  brother,  wife,  nor  son, 
Hath  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 

Here  sleeps  he  now  alone  :  the  star 
That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown 

Hath  sunk ;  the  nations  from  afar 
Gazed  as  it  faded  and  went  down. 


JOHN   PIERPONT.  179 

He  sleeps  alone :  the  mountain  cloud 
That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 

Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud 
That  wraps  his  martial  form  in  death. 

High  is  his  couch :  the  ocean  flood 

Far,  far  below  by  storms  is  curFd, 
As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 

A  stormy  and  inconstant  world. 

Hark !    Comes  there  from  the  Pyramids, 
And  from  Siberia's  wastes  of  snow, 

And  Europe's  fields,  a  voice  that  bids 
The  world  he  awed  to  mourn  him  ?    No : 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge 
That's  heard  there  is  the  seabird's  cry, 

The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, 
The  cloud's  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 


HER    CHOSEN    SPOT. 

WHILE  yet  she  lived,  she  walk'd  alone 
Among  these  shades.    A  voice  divine 

Whisper'd,  "  This  spot  shall  be  thine  own ; 
Here  shall  thy  wasting  form  recline, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  this  pine." 

"  Thy  will  be  done  !"  the  sufferer  said. 

This  spot  was  hallow'd  from  that  hour ; 
And,  in  her  eyes,  the  evening's  shade 
And  morning's  dew  this  green  spot  made 

More  lovely  than  her  bridal  bower. 

By  the  pale  moon— herself  more  pale 
And  spirit-like— these  walks  she  trod ; 

And,  while  no  voice,  from  swell  or  vale, 
Was  heard,  she  knelt  upon  this  sod 
And  gave  her  spirit  back  to  God. 


180  JOHN   PIERPONT. 

That  spirit,  with  an  angel's  wings, 

Went  up  from  the  young  mother's  bed. 
So,  heavenward,  soars  the  lark  and  sings  -r 
She's  lost  to  earth  and  earthly  things ; 
But  "  weep  not,  for  she  is  not  dead, 

She  sleepeth !"    Yea,  she  sleepeth  here, 
The  first  that  in  these  grounds  hath  slept. 

This  grave,  first  water'd  with  the  tear 
That  child  or  widow'd  man  hath  wept, 
Shall  be  by  heavenly  watchmen  kept. 

The  babe  that  lay  on  her  cold  breast — 
A  rosebud  drqpp'd  on  drifted  snow — 
Its  young  hand  in  its  father's  press'd, 
Shall  learn  that  she,  who  first  caress'd 
Its  infant  cheek,  now  sleeps  below. 

And  often  shall  he  come  alone, 

When  not  a  sound  but  evening's  sigh 
Is  heard,  and,  bowing  by  the  stone 
That  bears  his  mother's  name,  with  none 
But  God  and  guardian  angels  nigh, 

Shall  say,  "  This  was  my  mother's  choice 
For  her  own  grave :  oh,  be  it  mine  ! 

Even  now,  metm'nks,  I  hear  her  voice 
Calling  me  hence,  in  the  divine 
And  mournful  whisper  of  this  pine." 


FOR  THE  CHARLESTOWN  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION. 

Two  hundred  years !  two  hundred  years ! 

How  much  of  human  power  and  pride, 
What  glorious  hopes,  what  gloomy  fears, 

Have  sunk  beneath  their  noiseless  tide ! 


JOHN    PIERPONT.  181 

The  red  man  at  his  horrid  rite, 
Seen  by  the  stars  at  night's  cold  noon, 

His  bark  canoe,  its  track  of  light 
Left  on  the  wave  beneath  the  moon  ; 

His  dance,  his  yell,  his  council-fire, 

The  altar  where  his  victim  lay, 
His  death-song,  and  his  funeral  pyre, 

That  still,  strong  tide  hath  borne  away/ 

And  that  pale  Pilgrim  band  is  gone, 

That  on  this  shore  with  trembling  trod, 

Ready  to  faint,  yet  bearing  on 
The  ark  of  freedom  and  of  God. 

And  war — that  since  o'er  ocean  came, 
And  thunder'd  loud  from  yonder  hill, 

And  wrapp'd  its  foot  in  sheets  of  flame, 
To  blast  that  ark— its  storm  is  still. 

Chief,  sachem,  sage,  bards,  heroes,  seers, 

That  live  in  story  and  in  song, 
Time,  for  the  last  two  hundred  years, 

Has  raised,  and  shown,  and  swept  along, 

'Tis  like  a  dream  when  one  awakes, 

This  vision  of  the  scenes  of  old  ; 
'Tis  like  the  moon  when  morning  breaks, 

'Tis  like  a  tale  round  watchfires  told. 

Then  what  are  we  ?  then  what  are  we  ? 

Yes,  when  two  hundred  years  have  roll'd 
O'er  our  green  graves,  our  names  shall  be 

A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that's  told. 

God  of  our  fathers,  in  whose  sight 
The  thousand  years  that  sweep  away 

Man  and  the  traces  of  his  might 
Are  but  the  break  and  close  of  day, 

a 


182  GEORGE    HILL. 

Grant  us  that  love  of  truth  sublime. 
That  love  of  goodness  and  of  thee, 

That  makes  thy  children,  in  all  time, 
To  share  thine  own  eternity. 


GEORGE  HILL. 
FROM  THE  RUINS  OF  ATHENS. 

THE  daylight  fades  o'er  old  Cyllene's  hill, 
And  broad  and  dun  the  mountain  shadows  fall ; 
The  stars  are  up  and  sparkling,  as  if  still 
Smiling  upon  their  altars  ;  but  the  tall 
Dark  cypress,  gently,  as  a  mourner,  bends — 
Wet  with  the  drops  of  evening  as  with  tears — 
Alike  o'er  shrine  and  worshipper,  and  blends, 
All  dim  and  lonely,  with  the  wrecks  of  years, 
As  of  a  world  gone  by  no  coming  morning  cheers. 

There  sits  the  queen  of  temples— gray  and  lone. 
She,  like  the  last  of  an  imperial  line, 
Has  seen  her  sister  structures,  one  by  one, 
To  time  their  gods  and  worshippers  resign  j 
And  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  weeds  that  twine 
Their  roofless  capitals  ;  and,  through  the  night, 
Heard  the  hoarse  drum  and  the  exploding  mine, 
The  clash  of  arms  and  hymns  of  uncouth  rite, 
From  their  dismantled  shrines,  the  guardian  powers 
affright. 

Go  !  thou  from  whose  forsaken  heart  are  reft 
The  ties  of  home  •,  and,  where  a  dwelling-place 
Not  Jove  himself  the  elements  have  left, 
The  grass-grown,  undefined  arena  pace !        [hear 
Look  on  its  rent,  though  tower-like  shafts,  and 
The  loud  winds  thunder  in  their  aged  face ; 
Then  slowly  turn  thine  eye,  where  moulders  near 
A  Caesar's  Arch,  and  the  blue  depth  of  space 
Vaults  like  a  sepulchre  the  wrecks  of  a  past  race. 


GEORGE    HILL.  183 

Is  it  not  better  with  the  Eremite, 

Where  the  weeds  rustle  o'er  his  airy  cave, 

Perch'd  on  their  summit,  through  the  long  still 

night 

To  sit  and  watch  their  shadows  slowly  wave — 
While  oft  some  fragment,  sapp'd  by  dull  decay, 
In  thunder  breaks  the  silence,  and  the  fowl 
Of  Ruin  hoots — and  turn  in  scorn  away 
Of  all  man  builds,  time  levels,  and  the  cowl 
Guards  her  moping  sage  in  common  with  the  owl? 

Or,  where  the  palm,  at  twilight's  holy  hour, 
By  Theseus'  Fane  her  lonely  vigil  keeps  : 
Gone  are  her  sisters  of  the  leaf  and  flower, 
With  them  the  living  crop  earth  sows  and  reaps. 
But  these  revive  not :  the  weed  with  them  sleeps, 
But  clothes  herself  in  beauty  from  their  clay, 
And  leaves  them  to  their  slumber ;  o'er  them 

weeps 

Vainly  the  Spring  her  quickening  dews  away, 
And  Love  as  vainly  mourns,  and  mourns,  alas !  for 
aye. 

Or,  more  remote,  on  Nature's  haunts  intrude, 
Where,  since  creation,  she  has  slept  on  flowers, 
Wet  with  the  noonday  forest-dew,  and  wooed 
By  untamed  choristers  in  unpruned  bowers : 
By  pathless  thicket,  rock  that  time-worn  towers 
O'er  dells  untrodden  by  the  hunter,  piled 
Ere  by  its  shadow  measured  were  the  hours 
To  human  eye,  the  rampart  of  the  wild, 
Whose  banner  is  the  cloud,  by  carnage  undefiled. 

The  weary  spirit  that  forsaken  plods 
The  world's  wide  wilderness,  a  home  may  find 
Here,  mid  the  dwellings  of  long  banish'd  gods 
And  thoughts  they  bring,  the  mourners  of  the 
mind; 


184  GEORGE    HILL. 

The  spectres  that  no  spell  has  power  to  bind, 
The  loved,  but  lost,  whose  soul's  life  is  in  ours. 
As  incense  in  sepulchral  urns,  enshrined, 
The  sense  of  blighted  or  of  wasted  powers, 
The  hopes  whose  promised  fruits  have  perish'd  with 
their  flowers. 

There  is  a  small  low  cape— there,  where  the  moon 
Breaks  o'er  the  shatter'd  and  now  shapeless  stone ; 
The  waters,  as  a  rude  but  fitting  boon,      [thrown 
Weeds   and   small  shells   have,  like   a  garland, 
Upon  it,  and  the  wind's  and  wave's  low  moan, 
And  sighing  grass,  and  cricket's  plaint,  are  heard 
To  steal  upon  the  stillness,  like  a  tone 
Remember'd.     Here,  by  human  foot  unstirr'd, 
Its  seed  the  thistle  sheds,  and  builds  the  ocean-bird. 

Lurks  the  foul  toad,  the  lizard  basks  secure 
Within  the  sepulchre  of  him  whose  name 
Had  scattered  navies  like  the  whirlwind.     Sure, 
If  aught  ambition's  fiery  wing  may  tame, 
'Tis  here  ;  the  web  the  spider  weaves  where  Fame 
Planted  her  proud  but  sunken  shaft,  should  be 
To  it  a  fetter,  still  it  springs  the  same. 
Glory's  fool-worshipper!  here  bend  thy  knee! 
The  tomb  thine  altar- stone,  thine  idol  Mockery : 

A  small  gray  elf,  all  sprinkled  o'er  with  dust 
Of  crumbling  catacomb,  and  mouldering  shred 
Of  banner  and  embroider'd  pall,  and  rust 
Of  arms,  lime- worn  monuments,  that  shed 
A  canker'd  gleam  on  dim  escutcheons,  where 
The  groping  antiquary  pores  to  spy — 
A  what  ]  a  name — perchance  ne'er  graven  there  ; 
At  whom  the  urchin  with  his  mimic  eye 
Sits  peering  through  a  scull,  and  laughs  continually. 


GEORGE    HILL.  185 


THE  MOUNTAIN  <5IRL. 

THE  clouds,  that  upward  curling  from 

Nevada's  summit  fly, 
Melt  into  air :  gone  are  the  showers, 
And,  decked,  as  'twere  with  bridal  flowers, 

Earth  seems  to  wed  the  sky. 

All  hearts  are  by  the  spirit  that 

Breathes  in  the  sunshine  stirr'd : 
And  there's  a  girl  that,  up  and  down, 
A  merry  vagrant,  through  the  town 
Goes  singing  like  a  bird. 

A  thing  all  lightness,  life,  and  glee ; 

One  of  the  shapes  we  seem 
To  meet  in  visions  of  the  night ; 
And,  should  they  greet  our  waking  sight, 

Imagine  that  we  dream.  l 

With  glossy  ringlet,  brow  that  is 

As  falling  snow-flake  white, 
Half  hidden  by  its  jetty  braid, 
And  eye  like  dewdrop  in  the  shade, 

At  once  both  dark  and  bright : 

And  cheek  whereon  the  sunny  clime 

Its  brown  tint  gently  throws, 
Gently,  as  it  reluctant  were 
To  leave  its  print  on  thing  so  fair — 

A  shadow  on  a  rose. 

She  stops,  looks  up — what  does  she  see  ? 

A  flower  of  crimson  dye, 
Whose  vase,  the  work  of  Moorish  hands, 
A  lady  sprinkles,  as  it  stands 

Upon  a  balcony : 


186  GEORGE    HILL. 

High,  leaning  from  a  window  forth, 

From  curtains  that  half  shroud 
Her  maiden  form,  with  tress  of  gold, 
And  brow  that  mocks  their  snow-white  fold, 
Like  Dian  from  a  cloud. 

Nor  flower,  nor  lady  fair  she  sees — 

That  mountain  girl— but  dumb 
And  motionless  she  stands,  with  eye 
That  seems  communing  with  the  sky : 

Her  visions  are  of  home. 

That  flower  to  her  is  as  a  tone 

Of  some  forgotten  song, 
One  of  a  slumbering  thousand,  struck 
From  an  old  harp-string ;  but,  once  woke, 

It  brings  the  rest  along. 

She  sees  beside  the  mountain  brook, 

Beneath  the  old  cork-tree 
And  toppling  crag,  a  vine-thatch'd  shed, 
Perch'd,  like  the  eagle,  high  o'erhead, 

The  home  of  liberty ; 

The  rivulet,  the  olive  shade, 

The  grassy  plot,  the  flock ; 
Nor  does  her  simple  thought  forget, 
Haply,  the  little  violet, 

That  springs  beneath  the  rock. 

Sister  and  mate,  they  may  not  from 

Her  dreaming  eye  depart ; 
And  one,  the  source  of  gentler  fears, 
More  dear  than  all,  for  whom  she  wears 

The  token  at  her  heart. 

And  hence  her  eye  is  dim,  her  cheek 

Has  lost  its  livelier  glow  ; 
Her  song  has  ceased,  and  motionless 
j$he  stands,  an  image  of  distress  : 

Strange  what  a  flower  can  do ! 


GEORGE  HILL.  187 


THE    LOST    PLEIAD. 

There  were  Seven  Sisters,  and  each  wore 
A  starry  crown,  as,  hand  in  hand, 

By  Hesper  woke,  they  led  the  hours — 
The  minstrels  of  his  virgin  band. 

And  Love  would  come  at  eve,  as  they 
Were  met  their  vesper  hymn  to  sing, 

And  linger  till  it  ceased,  with  eye 
Of  raptured  gaze  and  folded  wing. 

For  ne'er  on  earth,  in  air,  were  heard 
More  thrilling  tones  than,  to  the  lyre 

Of  Heaven  timed,  rose  nightly  from 
The  lips  of  that  young  virgin  choir. 

But  they  were  coy,  or  seeming  coy, 
Those  minstrels  of  the  twilight  hour  ; 

Nuns  of  the  sky,  as  cold  and  shy, 
As  blossoms  of  the  woodland  bower. 

'Twas  eve,  and  Hesper  came  to  wake 
His  starry  troop,  but  wept — for  one, 

The  brightest,  fairest  of  the  group, 

Where  all  were  bright  and  fair,  was  gone. 

They  found  within  her  bower  the  harp 
To  which  was  tuned  her  vesper-hymn, 

The  star-gems  of  her  coronet, 
And  one  was  with  a  teardrop  dim. 

They  told  how  Love  had  at  the  gate 
Of  twilight  linger'd,  long  before 

The  daylight  set ;  but  he  was  flown, 
And  she,  the  lost  one,  seen  no  more. 


188  GEORGE    W.   DOANE. 


AUTUMN    NOON. 


ALL  was  so  still  that  I  could  almost  count 

The  tinklings  of  the  falling  leaves.     At  times, 

Perchance,  a  nut  was  heard  to  drop,  and  then — 

As  if  it  had  slipp'd  from  him  as  he  struck 

The  meat — a  squirrel's  short  and  fretful  bark. 

Anon,  a  troop  of  noisy,  roving  jays, 

Whisking  their  gaudy  topknots,  would  surprise 

And  seize  upon  the  top  of  some  tall  tree, 

Shrieking,  as  if  on  purpose  to  enjoy 

The  consternation  of  the  noontide  stillness. 

Roused  by  the  din,  the  squirrel  from  his  hole, 

Like  some  grave  justice  bent  to  keep  the  peace, 

Thrust  his  gray  pate,  much  wondering  what,  it  meant. 

And  squatted  near  me  on  a  stone,  there  bask'd 

A  fly  of  larger  breed  and  o'ergrown  bulk, 

In  the  warm  sunshine,  vain  of  his  green  coat 

Of  variable  velvet  laced  with  gold, 

That,  ever  and  anon,  would  whisk  about, 

Vexing  the  stillness  with  his  buzzing  din, 

As  human  fopling  will  do  with  his  talk : 

And  o'er  the  mossy  post  of  an  old  fence, 

Lured  from  its  crannies  by  the  warmth,  was  spied 

A  swarm  of  gay  motes  waltzing  to  a  tune 

Of  their  own  humming  :  quiet  sounds,  that  serve 

More  deeply  to  impress  us  with  a  sense 

Of  silent  loneliness  and  trackless  ways. 


GEORGE  W.  DOANE. 

THERMOPYLAE. 

'TWAS  an  hour  of  fearful  issues, 
When  the  bold  three  hundred  stood, 

For  their  love  of  holy  freedom, 
By  that  old  Thessalian  flood  ; 


GEORGE    W.    DOANE.  189 

When,  lifting  high  each  sword  of  flame, 
They  call'd  on  ev'ry  sacred  name, 
And" swore,  beside  those  dashing  waves, 
They  never,  never  would  be  slaves ! 

And  oh  !  that  oath  was  nobly  kept, 

From  morn  to  setting  sun, 
Did  desperation  urge  the  fight 

Which  valour  had  begun  ; 
Till,  torrent-like,  the  stream  of  blood 
Ran  down  and  mingled  with  the  flood, 
And  all,  from  mountain  cliff  to  wave, 
Was  Freedom's,  Valour's,  Glory's  grave. 

Oh,  yes,  that  oath  was  nobly  kept, 

Which  nobly  had  been  sworn, 
And  proudly  did  each  gallant  heart 

The  foeman's  fetters  spurn; 
And  firmly  was  the  fight  maintain'd, 
And  amply  was  the  triumph  gain'd ; 
They  fought,  fair  Liberty,  for  thee  : 
They  fell — TO  DIE  is  TO  BE  FREE. 


THE    WATERS    OF    MARAH. 

"  And  Moses  cried  unto  the  LORD,  and  the  LORD  showed 
him  a  tree,  which,  when  he  had  cast  into  the  waters,  the  waters 
were  made  sweet." 

BY  Marah's  stream  of  bitterness, 

When  Moses  stood  and  cried, 
JEHOVAH  heard  his  fervent  pray'r, 

And  instant  help  supplied : 
The  Prophet  sought  the  precious  tree 

With  prompt,  obedient  feet; 
'Twas  cast  into  the  fount,  and  made 

The  bitter  waters  sweet. 


190  LYDIA   HUNTLEY    SIGOURNEY. 

Whene'er  affliction  o'er  thee  sheds 

Its  influence  malign, 
Then,  suff'rer,  be  the  Prophet's  pray'r, 

And  prompt  obedience,  thine: 
'Tis  but  a  Marah's  fount,  ordain'd 

Thy  faith  in  God  to  prove, 
And  pray'r  and  resignation  shall 

Its  bitterness  remove 


LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY. 

INDIAN    NAMES. 

"  How  can  the  red  men  he  forgotten,  while  so  many  of  our 
states  and  territories,  bays,  lakes,  and  rivers,  are  indelibly  stamp 
ed  by  names  of  their  giving?" 

YE  say  they  all  have  pass'd  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave, 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanish'd 

From  off  the  crested  wave. 
That,  mid  the  forests  where  they  roam'd, 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shout ; 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'Tis  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  ocean's  surge  is  curl'd, 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world, 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  west, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  conelike  cabins, 

That  cluster'd  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  disappear'd,  as  wither'd  leaves 

Before  the  autumn's  gale  ; 


LYDIA    HUNTLEY    SIGOURNEY.  191 

But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore, 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  hears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown. 
Connecticut  hath  wreath'd  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart. 
Monadnock,  on  his  forehead  hoar, 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust, 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


CONTENTMENT. 

THINK'ST  thou  the  steed  that  restless  roves 
O'er  rocks  and  mountains,  fields  and  groves, 

With  wild,  unbridled  bound, 
Finds  fresher  pasture  than  the  bee, 
On  thymy  bank  or  vernal  tree, 
Intent  to  store  her  industry 

Within  her  waxen  round  1 

Think'st  thou  the  fountain  forced  to  turn 
Through  marble  vase  or  sculptured  urn,  . 

Affords  a  sweeter  draught 
Than  that  which,  in  its  native  sphere, 
Perennial,  undisturb'd  and  clear, 
Flows,  the  lone  traveller's  thirst  to  cheer, 

And  wake  his  grateful  thought  1 


192  LYDIA    HUNTLEY    SIGOTJRNEY. 

Think'st  thou  the  man  whose  mansions  hold 
The  worldling's  pomp  and  miser's  gold, 

Obtains  a  richer  prize 
Than  he  who,  in  his  cot  at  rest, 
Finds  heavenly  peace,  a  willing  guest, 
And  bears  the  promise  in  his  breast 

Of  treasure  in  the  skies  1 


THE    WESTERN    EMIGRANT. 

AN  ax  rang  sharply  mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  towards  the  skies  had  tower'd 
In  unshorn  beauty.     There,  with  vigorous  arm, 
Wrought  a  bold  emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response, 
Beguiled  the  toil. 

"  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 

Such  glorious  trees.     Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans.     Rememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sail'd, 
So  many  days,  on  towards  the  setting  sun1? 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compared  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream." 

"Father,  the  brook 

That  by  our  door  went  singing,  where  I  launch'd 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round 
When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 
They  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 
My  mother  nurtured  in  the  garden  bound 
Of  our  first  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the'day." 
"  What,  ho  !  my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  towards  her  sire, 
And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contain 'd 


LYDIA   HUNTLEY    SIGOURNEY.  193 

His  noon  repast,  look'd  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet,  confiding  smile. 

"  See,  dearest,  see, 

That  bright-wing'd  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  redbird,  echoing  through  the  trees, 
Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear, 
In  far  New-England,  such  a  mellow  tone  "?" 
"  I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Did  make  me  joyful  as  I  went  to  tend 
My  snowdrops.     I  was  always  laughing  then 
In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now, 
Methinks,  if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets." 

Slow  night  drew  on, 
And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 
Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 
And  he,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois, 
Dashing  against  their  shores. 

Starting,  he  spake : 

"  Wife  !  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear] 
'Twas  even  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 
Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit  home." 
"  No,  no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 
Which,  mid  the  church  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 
So  tuneful  peal'd.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolved  the  illusion." 

And  the  gentle  smile 

Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  sooth'd 
Her  waking  infant,  reassured  his  soul 
That,  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 
R 


194  LYDIA    HUNTLEY    SIGOURNEY. 

And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content  and  placid  to  his  rest  he  sank ; 
But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him. 

Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
Of  his  own  native  city  ;  roof  and  spire, 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frostwork  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtured  proudly  neigh'd  ; 
The  favourite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet, 
"With  shrill  and  joyous  bark  ;  familiar  doors 
Flew  open ;  greeting  hands  with  his  were  link'd 
In  friendship's  grasp  ;  he  heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten  ;  and  till  morning  roved 
Mid  the  loved  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


THE    WIDOW'S    CHARGE    AT    HER    DAUGHTER'S    BRIDAL. 

DEAL  gently,  thon,  whose  hand  has  won 

The  young  bird  from  the  nest  away, 
Where,  careless  'neath  a  vernal  sun, 

She  gayly  caroll'd  day  by  day  : 
The  haunt  is  lone,  the  heart  must  grieve, 

From  whence  her  timid  wing  doth  soar, 
They  pensive  list,  at  hush  of  eve, 

Yet  hear  her  gushing  song  no  more. 

Deal  gently  with  her  :  thou  art  dear 

Beyond  what  vestal  lips  have  told, 
And  like  a  lamb,  from  fountain  clear, 

She  turns  confiding  to  the  fold ; 
She  round  thy  sweet,  domestic  bower 

The  wreaths  of  changeless  love  shall  twine, 
Watch  for  thy  step  at  vesper  hour, 

And  blend  her  holiest  prayer  with  thine. 


HANNAH   F.    GOULD.  195 

Deal  gently,  thou,  when  far  away, 

Mid  stranger  scenes  her  foot  shall  rove, 
Nor  let  thy  tender  cares  decay, 

The  soul  of  woman  lives  in  love  ; 
And  shouldst  thou,  Wondering,  mark  a  tear 

Unconscious  from  her  eyelid  break, 
Be  pitiful,  and  sooth  the  fear 

That  man's  strong  heart  can  ne'er  partake. 

A  mother  yields  her  gem  to  thee, 

On  thy  true  breast  to  sparkle  rare ; 
She  places  'neath  thy  household  tree 

The  idol  of  her  fondest  care ; 
And  by  thy  trust  to  be  forgiven, 

When  judgment  wakes  in  terror  wild, 
By  all  thy  treasured  hopes  of  Heaven, 

Deal  gently  with  the  widow's  child. 


HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 

THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

"  I  AM  a  pebble  !  and  yield  to  none  !" 
Were  the  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone  ; 
""  Nor  time  nor  seasons  can  alter  me ; 
I  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 
The  pelting  hail  and  the  drizzling  rain 
Have  tried  to  soften  me,  long,  in  vain ; 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt, 
Or  touch  my  heart,  but  it  was  not  felt. 
There's  none  that  can  tell  about  my  birth, 
For  I'm  as  old  as  the  big,  round  earth. 
The  children  of  men  arise,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  world  like  the  blades  of  grass  ; 
And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod, 
That's  gone  from  sight  and  under  the  sod ! 
I  am  a  pebble !  but  who  art  thou, 
Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough'?" 


196  HANNAH   F.    GOULD. 

The  acorn  was  shock'd  at  this  rude  salute, 
And  lay  for  a  moment  abash'd  and  mute  ; 
She  never  before  had  been  so  near 
This  gravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere ; 
And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 
How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  and  low. 
But  to  give  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort 
Than  the  angry  look  or  the  keen  retort, 
At  length  she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone, 
"  Since  it  has  happen'd  that  I  am  thrown 
From  the  lighter  element,  where  I  grew, 
Down  to  another  so  hard  and  new, 
And  beside  a  personage  so  august, 
Abased,  I  will  cover  my  head  with  dust, 
And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 
Whom  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun, 
Nor  the  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel 
Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel!" 
And  soon,  in  the  earth,  she  sunk  away 
From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
By  the  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak ! 
And,  as  it  arose  and  its  branches  spread, 
The  pebble  look'd  up,  and  wondering  said : 
"  A  modest  acorn  !  never  to  tell 
What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell ; 
That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  folded  up 
In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup  ! 
And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth. 
Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her 'worth! 
And  oh  !  how  many  will  tread  on  me, 
To  come  and  admire  the  beautiful  tree, 
Whose  head  is  towering  towards  the  sky, 
Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 
Useless  and  vain,  a  cumberer  here, 
I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 
But  never,  from  this,  shall  a  vaunting  word 
From  the  humbled  pebble  again  be  heard, 


HANNAH    F.    GOULD.  197 

Till  something  without  me  or  within, 
Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I've  been !" 
The  pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget, 
And  it  lies  there  wrapp'd  in  silence  yet. 


THE    WATERFALL. 

YE  mighty  waters,  that  have  join'd  your  forces, 
Roaring  and  dashing  with  this  awful  sound, 

Here  are  ye  mingled ;  but  the  distant  sources 
"Whence  ye  have   issued,  where  shall  they  be 
found  ? 

Who  may  retrace  the  ways  that  ye  have  taken, 
Ye  streams  and  drops  1  who  separate  you  all, 

And  find  the  many  places  ye've  forsaken, 
To  come  and  rush  together  down  the  fall  1 

Through  thousand,  thousand  paths  have  ye  been 
roaming, 

In  earth  and  air,  who  now  each  other  urge 
To  the  last  point !  and  then,  so  madly  foaming, 

Leap  down  at  once  from  this  stupendous  verge. 

Some  in  the  lowering  cloud  a  while  were  centred, 
That  in  the  stream  beheld  its  sable  face, 

And  melted  into  tears,  that,  falling,  enter'd 
With  sister  waters  on  the  sudden  race. 

Others,  to  light  that  beam'd  upon  the  fountain, 
Have  from  the  vitals  of  the  rock  been  freed, 

In  silver  threads,  that,  shining  down  the  mountain, 
Twined  off  among  the  verdure  of  the  mead. 

And  many  a  flower  that  bow'd  beside  the  river, 
In  opening  beauty,  ere  the  dew  was  dried, 

Stirr'd  by  the  breeze,  has  been  an  early  giver 
Of  her  pure  offering  to  the  rolling  tide. 
R2 


198  HANNAH    F.    GOULD. 

Thus  from  the  veins,  through  earth's  dark  bosom 
pouring, 

Many  have  flow'd  in  tributary  streams  ; 
Some,  in  the  bow  that  bent,  the  sun  adoring, 

Have  shone  in  colours  borrowed  from  his  beams. 

But  He  who  holds  the  ocean  in  the  hollow 
Of  his  strong  hand  can  separate  you  all ! 

His  searching  eye  the  secret  way  will  follow, 
Of  every  drop  that  hurries  to  the  fall ! 

We  are,  like  you,  in  mighty  torrents  mingled, 
And  speeding  downward  to  one  common  home  ; 

Yet  there's  an  eye  that  every  drop  hath  singled, 
And  mark'd  the  winding  ways  through  which  we 
come. 

Those  who  have  here  adored  the  Sun  of  heaven, 
And  shown  the  world  their  brightness  drawn  from 
him, 

Again  before  him,  though  their  hues  be  seven, 
Shall  blend  their  beauty,  never  to  grow  dim. 

We  bless  the  promise,  as  we  thus  are  tending 
Down  to  the  tomb,  that  gives  us  hope  to  rise 

Before  the  Power  to  whom  we  now  are  bending, 
To  stand  his  bow  of  glory  in  the  skies ! 


THE  DREAM. 

I  DREAM'D,  and  'twas  a  lovely,  blessed  dream, 
That  I  again  my  native  hills  had  found, 

The  mossy  rocks,  the  valley,  and  the  stream: 
That  used  to  hold  me  captive  to  its  sound. 

I  was  a  child  again  :  I  roam'd  anew 

About  my  early  haunts,  and  saw  the  whole 

That  fades,  with  waking  memory,  from  the  view 
Of  this  mysterious  thing  we  call  the  souk 


HANNAH    F.    GOULD.  199 

A  very  child,  again  beside  the  brook, 

I  made  my  puny  hand  a  cup  to  dip 
Among  the  sparkling  waters,  where  I  took 

Its  hollow  full  and  brought  it  to  my  lip. 

And  oh !  that  cooling  draught  I  still  can  taste, 
And  feel  it  in  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  : 

'Tis  like  a  fount,  that  in  the  desert  waste 
Leaps  out,  the  weary  pilgrim  to  refresh. 

The  spice  of  other  days  was  borne  along, 
From  shrub  and  forest,  on  the  balmy  breeze ; 

I  heard  my  warbling  wild-bird's  tender  song 
Corne  sweet  and  thrilling  through  the  rustling 
trees. 

All  was  restored,  as  in  the  sunny  day 
When  I  believed  my  little  rural  ground 

The  centre  of  the  world,  whose  limits  lay 

Just  where  the  bright  horizon  hemm'd  it  round. 

And  she — who  was  my  sister  then,  but  now 
What  she  may  be  the  pure  immortals  know, 

Who  round  the  throne  of  the  Eternal  bow, 
And  bathe  in  glory,  veil'd  from  all  below — 

Yes,  she  was  there  ;  who,  with  her  riper  years, 
Once  walk'd,  the  guardian  of  my  infant  feet ; 

Drew  from  my  hand  the  thorn,  wiped  off  my  tears, 
And  brought  fresh  flowers  to  deck  our  grassy 
seat. 

I  saw  her  cheek  with  life's  warm  current  flush'd; 

Clung  to  the  fingers  that  I  used  to  hold  ; 
Heard  the  loved  voice  that  is  for  ever  hush'd, 

And  felt  the  form  that  long  ago  was  cold. 

All  I  have  been  and  known,  in  all  the  years 
Since  I  was  sporting  in  that  cherished  spot, 

My  hopes,  my  joys,  my  wishes,  and  my  tears, 
As  only  dreamings,  were  alike  forgot. 


200  HANNAH    F.    GOULD. 

'Twas  this  that  made  my  dream  so  bless'd  and 
bright, 

And  me  the  careless  thing  that  I  was  then : 
Yet,  Time,  I  would  not  now  reverse  thy  flight, 

And  risk  the  running  of  my  race  again. 

The  fairest  joys  that  struck  their  roots  in  earth, 
I  would  not  rear  again  to  bloom  and  fade ! 

I've  had  them  once  in  their  ideal  worth ; 

Their  height  Fve  measured,  and  their  substance 
weigh'd. 

Nor  those  who  sleep  in  peace  would  I  awake, 
To  have  their  hearts  with  time's  delusions  fill'd; 

The  seal  that  God  has  set  I  would  not  break, 
Nor  call  the  voice  to  lips  that  he  has  still'd. 

And  yet  I  love  my  dream  :  'twas  very  sweet 
To  be  among  my  native  hills  again ; 

Where  my  light  heart  was  borne  by  infant  feet, 
The  careless,  blissful  creature  I  was"  then ! 

Whene'er  I  think  of  it,  the  warm  tears  roll, 
Uncall'd  and  unforbidden,  down  my  cheek ; 

But  not  for  joy  or  sorrow.     Oh,  rny  soul, 
Thy  nature,  power,  or  purpose,  who  can  speak  ? 


THE    CHILD   ON   THE    BEACH. 

MARY,  a  beautiful,  artless  child, 
Came  down  on  the  beach  to  me, 

Where  I  sat,  and  a  pensive  hour  beguiled 
By  watching  the  restless  sea. 

I  never  had  seen  her  face  before, 
And  mine  was  to  her  unknown ; 

But  we  each  rejoiced  on  that  peaceful  shore 
The  other  to  meet  alone. 


HANNAH    F.    GOULD.  201 

Her  cheek  was  the  rose's  opening  bud, 

Her  brow  of  an  ivory  white  ; 
Her  eyes  were  bright,  as  the  stars  that  stud 

The  sky  of  a  cloudless  night. 

To  reach  my  side  as  she  gayly  sped, 

With  the  step  of  a  bounding  fawn, 
The  pebbles  scarce  moved  beneath  her  tread, 

Ere  tlje  little  light  foot  was  gone. 

With  the  love  of  a  holier  world  than  this, 

Her  innocent  heart  seem'd  warm  ; 
While  the  glad  young  spirit  look'd  out  with  bliss 

From  its  shrine  in  her  sylph-like  form. 

Her  soul  seem'd  spreading  the  scene  to  span, 

That  open'd  before  her  view, 
And  longing  for  power  to  look  the  plan 

Of  the  universe  fairly  through. 

She  climb'd  and  stood  on  the  rocky  steep, 
Like  a  bird  that  would  mount  and  fly 

Far  over  the  waves,  where  the  broad,  blue  deep 
Roll'd  up  to  the  bending  sky. 

She  placed  her  lips  to  the  spiral  shell, 

And  breathed  through  every  fold ; 
She  look'd  for  the  depth  of  its  pearly  cell, 

As  a  miser  would  look  for  gold. 

Her  small  white  fingers  were  spread  to  toss 

The  foam,  as  it  reach'd  the  strand : 
She  ran  them  along- in  the  purple  moss, 

And  over  the  sparkling  sand. 

The  green  sea-egg,  by  its  tenant  left, 

And  form'd  to  an  ocean  cup, 
She  held  by  its  sides,  of  their  spears  bereft, 

To  fill,  as  the  waves  roll'd  up. 

But  the  hour  went  round,  and  she  knew  the  space 

Her  mother's  soft  word  assign'd ; 
While  she  seem'd  to  look  with  a  saddening  face 

On  all  she  must  leave  behind. 


202  HANNAH    F.    GOULD. 

She  searcli'd  mid  the  pebbles,  and  finding  one 
Smooth,  clear,  and  of  amber  dye, 

She  held  it  up  to  the  morning  sun, 
And  over  her  own  mild  eye. 

Then,  "  Here,"  said  she,  "  I  will  give  you  this, 

That  you  may  remember  me  !" 
And  she  seal'd  her  gift  with  a  parting  kiss, 

And  fled  from  beside  the  sea. 

Mary,  thy  token  is  by  me  yet. 

To  me  'tis  a  dearer  gem 
Than  ever  was  brought  from  the  mine,  or  set 

In  the  loftiest  diadem. 

It  carries  me  back  to  the  far-off  deep, 

And  places  me  on  the  shore, 
Where  the  beauteous  child,  who  bade  me  keep 

Her  pebble,  I  meet  once  more. 

And  all  that  is  lovely,  pure,  and  bright, 

In  a  soul  that  is  young,  and  free 
From  the  stain  of  guile,  and  the  deadly  blight 

Of  sorrow,  I  find  in  thee. 

I  wonder  if  ever  thy  tender  heart 

In  memory  meets  me  there, 
Where  thy  soft,  quick  sigh,  as  we  had  to  part, 

Was  caught  by  the  ocean  air. 

Bless'd  one !  over  time's  rude  shore,  on  thee 

May  an  angel  guard  attend, 
And  "  a  white  stone  bearing  a  new  name,"  be 

Thy  passport  when  time  shall  end ! 


PROSPER    M.    WETMORE.  203 


PROSPER   M.    WETMORE. 

"TWELVE  YEARS  HAVE  FLOWN." 

TWELVE  years  have  flown  since  last  I  saw 

My  birthplace  and  my  home  of  youth : 
How  oft  its  scenes  would  memory  draw, 

Her  tints  the  pencillings  of  truth : 
Unto  that  spot  1  come  once  more, 

The  dearest  life  hath  ever  known ; 
And  still  it  wears  the  look  it  wore, 

Although  twelve  weary  years  have  flown. 

Again  upon  the  soil  I  stand 

Where  first  my  infant  footsteps  stray'd ; 
Again  i  view  my  "  father-land," 

And  wander  through  its  pleasant  shade  : 
I  gaze  upon  the  hills,  the  skies, 

The  verdant  banks  with  flowers  o'ergrown, 
And  while  I  look  with  glistening  eyes, 

Almost  forget  twelve  years  are  flown. 

Twelve  years  are  flown !  those  words  are  brief, 

Yet  in  their  sound  what  fancies  dwell : 
The  hours  of  bliss,  the  days  of  grief, 

The  joys  and  woes  remember'd  well : 
The  hopes  that  fill'd  the  youthful  breast, 

Alas !  how  many  a  one  o'erthuown ! 
Deep  thoughts,  that  long  have  been  at  rest, 

Wake  at  the  words,  twelve  years  have  flown! 

The  past !  the  past !  a  saddening  thought, 

A  withering  spell  is  in  the  sound ! 
It  comes  with  memories  deeply  fraught 

Of  youthful  pleasure's  giddy  round  ; 
Of  forms  that  roved  life's  sunniest  bowers, 

The  cherish'd  few  for  ever  gone  : 
Of  dreams  that  fill'd  life's  morning  hours, 

Where  are  they  now?    Twelve  years  have 
flown !  - 


204  WILLIAM    C.   BRYANT. 

A  brief  but  eloquent  reply ! 

Where   are  youth's   hopes  —  life's  morning 
Seek  for  the  fio'wers  that  floated  by      [dream? 

Upon  the  rushing  mountain  stream ! 
Yet  gems  beneath  that  wave  may  sleep, 

Till  after  years  shall  make  them  known ; 
Thus  golden  thoughts  the  heart  will  keep, 

That  perish  not,  though  years  have  flown. 


WILLIAM  C.  BRYANT. 

THE    PAST. 

THOU  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  that  draws  us  to  the  ground, 

And  last,  man's  life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends— the  good — the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form— the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back  :  yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
The  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 


WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT.  205 

In  vain  :  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back,  nor  to 'the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown :  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea ; 

Labours  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublish'd  charity,  unbroken  faith : 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  falter'd  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unutter'd,  unrevered; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappear'd. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they : 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth,  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perish'd — no ! 
Kind  words,  remember'd  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat, 

All  shall  come  back  ;  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 

And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 
S 


206  WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 


THE    PRAIRIES. 

THESE  are  the  gardens  of  the  desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name— 
The  Prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  wrhile  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo !  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fix'd, 
And  motionless  for  ever.     Motionless  ? 
No,  they  are  all  unchain'd  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along,  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South ! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk,  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have  play'd 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisp'd  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fann'd 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work  : 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smooth'd  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their 

slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 
And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.    Fitting  floor 
For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky— 


WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT.  207 

With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rival  the  constellations  !     The  great  heavens 
Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love — 
A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 
Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 
As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 
Among  the  high,  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides, 
The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.     Are  they  here — 
The  dead  of  other  days  1  and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And  burn  with  passion  1     Let  the  mighty  mounds 
That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest,  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.     A  race,  that  long  has  pass'd  away, 
Built  them  ;  a  disciplined  and  populous  race 
Heap'd,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the  Greek 
Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 
Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 
The  glittering  Parthenon.     These  ample  fields 
Nourish'd  their  harvests,  here  their  herds  were  fed, 
When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  low'd, 
And  bow'd  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 
All  day  this  desert  murmur'd  with  their  toils, 
Till  twilight  blush'd,  and  lovers  walk'd,  and  wooed 
In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 
From  instruments  of  unremember'd  form, 
Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.     The  red  man  came — ? 
The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 
And  the  mound-builders  vanish'd  from  the  earth. 
The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 
Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.     The  prairie-wolf 
Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 
Yawns  by  my  path.     The  gopher  mines  the  ground 
Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.     All  is  gone — 
All — save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their  bones — 
The   platforms  where   they  worshipped  unknown 
gods— 


208  WILLIAM    C.   BRYANT. 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 
To  keep  the  foe  at  bay — till  o'er  the  walls 
The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 
The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced,  and  heap'd 
With  corpses.     The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 
Flock'd  to  those  vast  uncover'd  sepulchres, 
And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 
Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 
Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 
Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 
Man's  better  nature  triumph'd.     Kindly  words 
Welcomed  and  sooth'd  him  ;  the  rude  conquerors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs  ;  he  chose 
A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seem'd  to  forget — yet  ne'er  forgot —the  wife 
Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 
Butcher'd,  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.     Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.     The  red  man,  too, 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wider  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face ;  among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.     In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more.     Twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps;  yet  here  1  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamp'd  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds  that  scarce  have  learn'd  the  fear  of  man, 


WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT.  209 

Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 

Startlingly  beautiful.     The  graceful  deer 

Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.     The  bee, 

A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 

With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 

Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 

And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 

Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 

To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 

The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 

Which  soon  shall  fill  the  deserts,     from  the  ground 

Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 

Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 

Of  Sabbath  worshippers.     The  low  of  herds 

Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 

Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.     All  at  once 

A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 

And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 


THE    RIVULET. 


THIS  little  rill  that,  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove,  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  a  while,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dress'd, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown-thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 
S3 


210  WILLIAM   C.    BRYANT. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
"Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Pass'd  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  i  deem'd  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  pass'd  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wander'd  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever  joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run, 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue  ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress ; 
And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not— but  I  am  changed 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 


WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT.  211 

Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I've  tried  the  world  :  it  wears  no  more 
The  colouring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty,  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sober'd  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bow'd  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date), 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favourite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call  ; 
Yet  shall  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep :  and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here  ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


213  JAMES    K.   PAULDING. 


"EARTH'S  CHILDREN  CLEAVE  TO  EARTH." 

EARTH'S  children  cleave  to  earth  :  her  frail, 

Decaying  children  dread  decay. 
Yon  wreath  of  mist  that  leaves  the  vale, 

And  lessens  in  the  morning  ray : 
Look,  how,  by  mountain  rivulet, 

It  lingers,  as  it  upward  creeps, 
And  clings  to  fern  and  copsewood  set 

Along  the  green  and  dewy  steps  : 
Clings  to  the  fragrant  kalmia,  clings 

To  precipices  fringed  with  grass, 
Dark  maples  where  the  wood-thrush  sings, 

And  bowers  of  fragrant  sassafras. 
Yet  fill  in  vain  :  it  passes  still 

From  hold  to  hold ;  it  cannot  stay ; 
And  in  the  very  beams  that  fill 

The  world  with  glory,  wastes  away. 
Till,  parting  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

It  vanishes  from  human  eye, 
And  that  which  sprung  of  earth  is  now 

A  portion  of  the  glorious  sky. 


JAMES  K.    PAULDING. 

PASSAGE    DOWN    THE    OHIO. 

As  down  Ohio's  ever  ebbing  tide, 
Oarless  and  sailless,  silently  they  glide, 
How  still  the  scene,  how  lifeless,  yet  how  fair, 
Was  the  lone  land  that  met  the  strangers  there  ! 
No  smiling  villages  or  curling  smoke 
The  busy  haunts  of  busy  men  bespoke ; 
No  solitary  hut  the  banks  along, 
Sent  forth  blithe  Labour's  homely,  rustic  song; 
No  urchin  gamboll'd  on  the  smooth  white  sand, 
Pr  hurl'd  the  skipping-stone  with  playful  hand, 


JAMES    K.    PAULDING.  213 

While  playmate  dog  plunged  in  the  clear  blue  wave, 

And  swam,  in  vain,  the  sinking  prize  to  save. 

Where  now  are  seen,  along  the  river  side, 

Young  busy  towns,  in  buxom  painted  pride, 

And  fleets  of  gliding  boats  with  riches  crown'd, 

To  distant  Orleans  or  St.  Louis  bound, 

Nothing  appeared  but  nauire  unsubdued, 

One  endless,  noiseless  woodland  solitude, 

Or  boundless  prairie,  that  aye  seem'd  to  be 

As  level  and  as  lifeless  as  the  sea ; 

They  seem'd  to  breathe  in  this  wide  world  alone, 

Heirs  of  the  Earth — the  land  was  all  their  own! 

% 

'Twas  evening  now  :  the  hour  of  toil  was  o'er, 
Yet  still  they  durst  not  seek  the  fearful  shore, 
Lest  watchful  Indian  crew  should  silent  creep, 
And  spring  upon  and  murder  them  in  sleep; 
So  through  the  livelong  night  they  held  their  way, 
And  'twas  a  night  might  shame  the  fairest  day; 
So  still,  so  bright,  so  tranquil  was  its  reign, 
They  cared  not  though  the  day  ne'er  came  again. 
The  moon  high  wheel'd  the  distant  hills  above, 
Silver'd  the  fleecy  foliage  of  the  grove, 
That  as  the  wooing  zephyrs  on  it  fell, 
Whisper'd  it  loved  the  gentle  visit  well : 
That  fair-faced  orb  alone  to  move  appear'd, 
That  zephyr  was  the  only  sound  they  heard. 
No  deep-mouth'd  hound  the  hunter's  haunt  betray'd, 
No  lights  upon  the  shore  or  waters  play'd, 
No  loud  laugh  broke  upon  the  silent  air, 
To  tell  the  wand'rers  man  was  nestling  there. 
All,  all  was  still,  on  gliding  bark  and  shore, 
As  if  the  earth  now  slept  to  wake  no  more. 


214  JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


JOHN   G.    WHITTIER, 

THE    FEMALE    MARTYR. 

Mary  G ,  aged  18,  a  "  SISTER  OF  CHARITY,"  died  in  one 

of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the  prevalence  oi  the  Indian  Chol 
era,  while  in  voluntary  attendance  upon  the  sick. 

"  BRING  out  your  dead !"  the  midnight  street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 

Harsh  1U1  the  tread  of  hasty  feet ; 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white  sheet ; 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What !  only  one !"  the  brutal  hackmn.n  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurn'd  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  roll'd  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall ! 
The  dying  turn'd  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die ! 

Onward  it  roll'd  ;  while  oft  its  driver  stay'd, 
And  hoarsely  .clamour'd,  "  Ho  !  bring  out  your  dead.* 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place : 
"  Toss  in  your  load  !"  and  it  was  done. 

With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 

Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 
They  cast  them,  one  by  one — 

Stranger  and  friend — the  evil  and  the  just, 

Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust ! 

And  thou,  young  martyr !  thou  wast  there : 

No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod, 
Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God ; 
Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallo w'd  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave ! 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER.  215 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer !  there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 

Of  Heaven's  own  love  Avas  kindled  well, 
Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown, 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing — where 
The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

Oh  high  soul'd  martyr !  thou  wast  there, 

Inhaling  from  the  loathsome  air 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapours,  damp,  confined, 

Hush'd  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread, 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven ! 
How  turn'd  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given ; 
And  the  o'erhovering  spoiler  wore,  the  while, 
An  angel's  features,  a  deliverer's  smile ! 


216  JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 

A  blessed  task !  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thon, 
Ere  being's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  seal'd  her  early  vow, 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward; 

Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear  : 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard, 

The  joys  prepared,  the  promised  bliss  above, 

The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy— 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honours ;  thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea :  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 
And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall— 

The  herald's  pride  of  long  renown, 

The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown — 
Perishing  glories  all ! 

The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 

Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part ! 


THE    WORSHIP    OF    NATURE. 

"It  hat.h  beene  as  it  were  especially  rendered  unto  mee,  and 
made  plaine  and  legible  to  my  understandynge,  that  a  great  wor- 
shipp  is  going  on  among  the  thyngs  of  God."—  Gralt. 

THE  Ocean  looketh  up  to  Heaven 

As  'twere  a  living  thing, 
The  homage  of  its  waves  is  given 

In  ceaseless  worshipping. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER.  217 

They  kneel  upon  the  sloping  sand, 

As  bends  the  human  knee, 
A  beautiful  and  tireless  band, 

The  Priesthood  of  the  Sea ! 

They  pour  the  glittering  treasures  out 

Which  in  the  deep  have  birth, 
And  chant  their  awful  hymns  about 

The  watching  hills  of  earth. 

The  green  earth  sends  its  incense  up 

From  every  mountain  shrine, 
From  every  flower  and  dewy  cup 

That  greeteth  the  sunshine. 

The  mists  are  lifted  from  the  rills 

Like  the  white  wing  of  prayer, 
They  lean  above  the  ancient  hills 

As  doing  homage  there. 

The  forest  tops  are  lowly  cast 

O'er  breezy  hill  and  glen, 
As  if  a  prayerful  spirit  pass'd 

On  Nature  as  on  men. 

The  clouds  weep  o"'er  the  fallen  world, 

E'en  as  repentant  love ; 
Ere  to  the  blessed  breeze  unfurl'd, 

They  fade  in  light  above. 

The  sky  is  as  a  temple's  arch, 

The  blue  and  wavy  air 
Is  glorious  with  the  spirit-march 

Of  messengers  of  prayer. 

The  gentle  moon,  the  kindling  sun, 
The  many  stars  are  given, 

As  shrines  to  burn  earth's  incense  on— 
The  altar-fires  of  Heaven ! 
T 


218  JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


PENTUCKET. 

The  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrimack,  called  by  the  In 
dians  Pentucket,  was  for  nearly  seventy  years  a  frontier  town, 
and  during  thirty  years  endured  all  the  horrors  of  savage  war 
fare.  In  the  year  1708,  a  combined  body  of  French  and  Indians, 
under  the  command  of  De  Challions,  and  Hertel  de  Rouville, 
the  infamous  and  bloody  sacker  of  Deerfield,  made  an  attack 
upon  the  village,  which  at  that  time  contained  only  thirty  houses. 
Sixteen  of  the  villagers  were  massacred,  and  a  still  larger  num 
ber  made  prisoners.  About  thirty  of  the  enemy  also  fell,  and 
among  them  Hertel  de  Rouville.  The  minister  of  the  place, 
Benjamin  Rolfe,  was  killed  by  a  shot  through  his  own  door. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone ! 
Each  small  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west. 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  Heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-wall'd  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretch'd  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blacken'd  stumps  between ; 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelPd  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  labourer  left  his  plough, 
The  milkmaid  caroll'd  by  her  cow ; 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER.  219 

From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay  : 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallow'd  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate ! 

Hours  pass'd  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall,  and  rock,  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hush'd  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound — 
No  bark  of  fox,  no  rabbit's  bound, 
No  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 

Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat  ? 

What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood ! 

Charr'd  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 

No  :  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glow'd, 

Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  show'd, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 

With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell,  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear, 
Swell'd  on  the  night-air  far  and  clear : 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock ; 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot ;  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men ; 
Sunk  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain ; 


JONATHAN   LAWRENCE. 

Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
Over  dead  corse  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  look'd  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filFd  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard,  nor  gunshot  there  : 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell ; 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where  - 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare ; 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  fear'd, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard ; 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Beneath  whose  grass-grown  surface  lies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


JONATHAN  LAWRENCE. 

LOOK    ALOFT. 

IN  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail, 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution  depart, 
"  Look  aloft !"  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow, 
"With  a  smile  far  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  wo, 


JONATHAN    LAWRENCE.  221 

Should  betray  thee  when  sorrows  like  clouds  are 

array'd, 
"Look  aloft"  to  the  friendship  which  never  shall 

fade. 

Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to 

thine  eye, 

Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  Sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  they  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart, 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom  in  sorrow  depart, 
"  Look  aloft"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb, 
To  that  soil  where  affection  is  ever  in  bloom. 

And  oh !  when  death  comes  in  his  terrors,  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "  look  aloft"  and  depart. 


TO    ON  THE    DEATH    OP    A   FAVOURITE   BIRD. 

ALAS  !  sweet  cousin,  how  can  I, 
In  harsh,  discordant  rhyme,  rehearse 

His  sweet,  sweet  song,  whose  melody 
Had  charms  beyond  the  reach  of  verse? 

Ah !  I  should  need  his  tuneful  art, 
His  tone  with  more  than  music  rife, 

In  fitting  numbers  to  impart 
The  tale  of  his  harmonious  life. 

And  yet  that  tale  how  shortly  told, 
One  feast  of  flowers,  one  ceaseless  strain ; 

At  morn  to  plume,  at  eve  to  fold 
His  wings,  to  feed  and  sleep  again. 


JONATHAN    LAWRENCE. 

A  simple  life  of  joyance  his, 

A  life  of  song,  no  care  had  he, 
Except,  perchance,  thy  glance  to  miss, 

And  in  sad  silence  pine  for  thee. 

Bless'd  in  thy  smile  of  sunshine  given, 
His  pinions  sought  no  softer  sky : 

Happy  to  find  his  loveliest  heaven 
In  the  blue  beauty  of  thine  eye. 

A.nd,  basking  in  that  smile  so  bright, 
He  had  no  wish  his  wings  to  free ; 

Found  in  its  beam  his  full  delight, 
And  loved  his  sweet  captivity. 

But  ah !  that  eye,  that  joyous  voice 
No  more  his  dreamy  sleep  shall  break ; 

No  more  his  little  heart  rejoice, 

Nor  songs  of  warbling  welcome  wake. 

In  vain  spring  woos  with  balmy  breath, 
And  bears  sweet  music  on  her  wings ; 

The  fine,  quick  ear  is  dull  in  death, 
The  answering  throat  no  longer  sings. 

His  lonely  mate  has  lost  her  cheer ; 

Or,  if  to  song  her  bosom  stir, 
Fixes  her  tiny  head  to  hear 

The  note  that  ne'er  shall  answer  her. 

That  note  which  hail'd  thee  to  the  last, 
And  call'd  thee  to  his  cage  to  see 

That  he  was  happy,  thus  to  cast 
His  last,  last  lingering  look  on  thee. 

Then,  since  for  ever  hush'd  his  strain, 
Lay  him  in  fitting  grave  to  sleep, 

Where  spring's  soft  dews  and  summer's  rain, 
With  gentle  tears  his  death  may  weep. 


OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES,  223 

There  let  the  first  soft  sunbeam  fling 
A  fresher  green  o'er  all  the  ground ; 

There  the  first  lonely  wild  flower  spring, 
And  shed  its  sweetest  fragrance  round. 

Thither  let  each  fond  bird  repair, 

At  music's  grave  its  vows  to  pay ; 
Or,  doom'd  to  die,  seek  refuge  there, 

And.  swan-like,  sing  its  soul  away. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD. 

Our  ancient  church !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadow'd  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire  ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  sentinel  and  nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green  ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between  ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennon'd  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone  ; 
The  child  unveils  his  cluster'd  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 


224  OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 

But  what  to  them  the  .dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share  ; 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbb'd  through  the  beating  air ; 
The  rattling  cord,  the  rolling  stone, 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone, 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears  ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years  ; 
But  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  press'd  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherish'd  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town ; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  f 

A  sigh  for  transient  power  ? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge, 
Here  scatter'd  death ;  yet  seek  the  spot, 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar ;  and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free  ! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 

In  many  a  chiselled  square, 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honour'd  names  were  there ; 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES.  225 

Alas !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazon'd  tablets  knew, 
Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 

Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillar'd  stone, 

The  empty  urn  of  pride  ; 
There  stands  the  goblet  and  the  sun, 

What  need  of  more  beside  1 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  atoyl 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy  ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom  ; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes  ; 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride ! 

I  wander'd  to  thy  buried  mound 

When  earth  was  hid,  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolPd, 
As  if  a  sultan's  white- robed  slaves 

Had  scatter'd  pearls  and  gold. 


226  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear 

To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone ; 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  pass'd  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 
May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 

Lie  on  thine  early  grave ! 

When  damps  beneath,  and  storms  above, 

Have  bow'd  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust-grove 

Shall  swing  its  orient  flowers  ; 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  others'  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


OLD   IRONSIDES. 

AY,  tear  her  tatter'd  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck— once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquish'd  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below — 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquer'd  knee  ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES.  227 

Oh !  better  that  her  shatter'd  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


THE    TREADMILL    SONG. 


THE  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  rolls  on  below, 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about. 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  1 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legg'd  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs  ; 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider-legs  ; 
What  though  you're  awkward  at  the  trade, 

There's  time  enough  to  learn, 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 

They've  built  us  up  a  noble  wall 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
We've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 

But  just  to  walk  about : 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends  ; 
It's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 


228  JOHN   H.   BRYANT. 

Here !  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes ; 

He  sha'n't  be  lazy  here  : 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear — 
He's  lost  them  both :  don't  pull  his  hair, 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch, 
But  poke  him  in  the  farther  eye, 

That  isn't  in  the  patch. 

Hark !  fellows,  there's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done  ; 
It's  pretty  sport — suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out 

When  I  have  better  grown, 
Now  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own ! 


JOHN  H.  BRYANT. 
'And  I  went  and  washed,  and  I  received  sight." — John  ix.,  11. 

WHEN  the  great  Master  spoke, 

He  touch'd  his  wither'd  eyes, 
And  at  one  gleam  upon  him  broke 

The  glad  earth  and  the  skies. 

And  he  saw  the  city's  walls, 

And  kings'  and  prophets'  tomb, 
And  mighty  arches  and  vaulted  halls, 

And  the  temple's  lofty  dome, 

He  look'd  on  the  river's  flood, 

And  the  flash  of  mountain  rills, 
And  the  gentle  wave  of  the  palms  that  stood 

Upon  Judea's  hills. 

He  saw  on  heights  and  plains 

Creatures  ef  every  race, 
But  a  mighty  thrill  run  through  his  veins 

When  he  met  the  human  face. 


JOHN   H.    BRYANT. 

And  his  virgin  sight  beheld 

The  ruddy  glow  of  even, 
And  the  thousand  shining  orbs  that  fill'd 

The  azure  depths  of  heaven. 

And  woman's  voice  before 
Had  cheer'd  his  gloomy  night, 

But  to  see  the  angel  form  she  wore 
Made  deeper  the  delight. 

And  his  heart  at  daylight's  close, 
For  the  bright  world  where  he  trod, 

And  when  the  yellow  morning  rose, 
Gave  speechless  thanks  to  God. 


MY    NATIVE    VILLAGE. 

THERE  lies  a  village  in  a  peaceful  vale, 
With  sloping  hills  and  waving  woods  around, 

Fenced  from  the  blasts.     There  never  ruder  gale 
Bows  the  tall  grass  that  covers  all  the  ground ; 

And  planted  shrubs  are  there,  and  cherish'd  flowers, 

And  a  bright  verdure  borne  of  gentler  showers. 

'Twas  there  my  young  existence  was  begun, 
My  earliest  sports  were  on  its  flowery  green, 

And  often,  when  my  schoolboy  task  was  done, 
I  climbed  its  hills  to  view  the  pleasant  scene, 

And  stood  and  gazed  till  the  sun's  setting  ray 

Shone  on  the  height — the  sweetest  of  the  day. 

There,  when  that  hour  of  mellow  light  was  come, 
And  mountain  shadows  cool'd  the  ripen'd  grain, 

I  watch'd  the  weary  yeoman  plodding  home, 
In  the  lone  path  that  winds  across  the  plain, 

To  rest  his  limbs,  and  watch  his  child  at  play, 

And  tell  him  o'er  the  labours  of  the  day. 
U 


230  ELIZABETH   P.   ELLET. 

And  when  the  woods  put  on  their  autumn  glow, 
And  the  bright  sun  came  in  among  the  trees, 

And  leaves  were  gathering  in  the  glen  below, 
Swept  softly  from  the  mountains  by  the  breeze, 

I  wander'd  till  the  starlight  on  the  stream 

At  length  awoke  me  from  my  fairy  dream. 

Ah !  happy  days,  too  happy  to  return, 

Fled  on  the.  wings  of  youth's  departed  years, 

A  bitter  lesson  has  been  mine  to  learn, 
The  truth  of  life,  its  labours,  pains,  and  fears ; 

Yet  does  the  memory  of  my  boyhood  stay, 

A  twilight  of  the  brightness  pass'd  away. 

My  thoughts  steal  back  to  that  sweet  village  still ; 
Its  flowers  and  peaceful  shades  before  me  rise  ; 
The  play-place  and  the  prospect  from  the  hill, 

Its  summer  verdure,  and  autumnal  dyes ; 
The  present  brings  its  storms ;  but,  while  they  last, 
I  shelter  me  in  the  delightful  past. 


ELIZABETH   F.   ELLET. 

LAKE    ONTARIO. 

DEEP  thoughts  o'ershade  my  spirit  while  I  gaze 
Upon  the  blue  depths  of  thy  mighty  breast : 

Thy  glassy  face  is  bright  with  sunset  rays, 
And  thy  far-stretching  waters  are  at  rest, 

Save  the  small  wave  that  on  thy  margin  plays, 
Lifting  to  summer  airs  its  flashing  crest ; 

While  the  fleet  hues  across  thy  surface  driven, 

Mingle  afar  in  the  embrace  of  heaven. 

Thy  smile  is  glorious  when  the  morning's  spring 
Gives  half  its  glowing  beauty  to  the  deep ; 

When  the  dusk  swallow  dips  his  drooping  wing, 
And  the  gay  winds  that  o'er  thy  bosom  sweep, 

Tribute  from  dewy  woods  and  violets  bring, 
Thy  restless  billows  in  their  gifts  to  steep. 


ELIZABETH   F.   ELLET.  231 

Thou'rt  beautiful  when  evening  moonbeams  shine, 
And  the  soft  hour  of  night  and  stars  is  thine. 

Thou  hast  thy  tempests,  too  ;  the  lightning's  home 
Is  near  thee,  though  unseen  ;  thy  peaceful  shore, 

When  storms  have  lash'd  these  waters  into  foam, 
Echoes  full  oft  the  pealing  thunder's  roar. 

Thou  hast  dark  trophies  :  the  unhonour'd  tomb 
Of  those  now  sought  and  wept  on  earth  no  more  r 

Full  many  a  goodly  form,  the  loved  and  brave, 

Lies  whelm'd  and  still  beneath  thy  sullen  wave. 

The  world  was  young  with  thee  ;  this  swelling  flood 
As  proudly  swell'd,  as  purely  met  the  sky, 

When  sound  of  life  roused  not  the  ancient  wood, 
Save  the  wild  eagle's  scream,  or  panther's  cry. 

Here  on  this  verdant  bank  the  savage  stood, 
And  shook  his  dart  and  battle-axe  on  high, 

While  hues  of  slaughter  tinged  thy  billows  blue, 

As  deeper  and  more  close  the  conflict  grew. 

Here,  too,  at  early  morn,  the  hunter's  song 
Was  heard  from  wooded  isle  and  grassy  glade  ; 

And  here  at  eve,  these  cluster'd  bowers  among, 
The  low,  sweet  carol  of  the  Indian  maid, 

Chiding  the  slumbering  breeze  and  shadows  long, 
That  kept  her  lingering  lover  from  the  shade  : 

While,  scarcely  seen,  thy  willing  waters  o'er, 

Sped  the  light  bark  that  bore  him  to  the  shore. 

Those  scenes  are  past.     The  spirit  of  changing  years 
Has  breathed  on  all  around  save  thee  alone. 

More  faintly  the  receding  woodland  hears 
Thy  voice,  once  full  and  joyous  as  its  own. 

Nations  have  gone  from  earth,  nor  trace  appears 
To  tell  their  tale— forgotten  or  unknown. 

Yet  here,  unchanged,  untamed,  thy  waters  lie, 

Azure,  and  clear,  and  boundless  as  the  sky. 


232         ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 


THE  VANITY  OF  THE  VULGAR  GREAT. 

STAY,  thou  ambitious  rill, 
Ignoble  offering  of  some  fount  impure ! 

Beneath  the  rugged  hill, 
Gloomy  with  shade,  thou  hadst  thy  birth  obscure ; 

With  faint  steps  issuing  slow, 
In  scanty  waves  among  the  rocks  to  flow. 

Fling  not  abroad  thy  spray, 
Nor  fiercely  lash  the  green  turf  at  thy  side ! 

What  though  indulgent  May 
With  liquid  snows  hath  swoln  thy  foaming  tide  ? 

August  will  follow  soon, 
To  still  thy  boastings  with  his  scorching  noon. 

Lo  !  calmly  through  the  vale 
The  Po,  the  king  of  rivers,  sweeps  along ; 

Yet  many  a  mighty  sail 
Bears  on  his  breast— proud  vessels,  swift  and  strong. 

Nor  from  the  meadow's  side 
'Neath  summer's  sun  recedes  his  lessen'd  tide. 

•     Thou,  threatening  all  around, 
Dost  foam  and  roar  along  thy  troubled  path ; 

In  grandeur  newly  found, 
Stunning  the  gazer  with  thy  noisy  wrath ! 

Yet,  foolish  stream  !  not  one 
Of  all  thy  boasted  glories  is  thine  own. 

The  smile  of  yonder  sky 
Is  brief,  and  change  the  fleeting  seasons  know ; 

On  barren  sands  and  dry, 
Soon  to  their  death  thy  brawling  waves  shall  flow. 

O'er  thee,  in  summer's  heat, 
Shall  pass  the  traveller  with  unmoisten'd  feet. 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN.  233 


TO    THE    WHIPPORWILL. 

BIRD  of  the  lone  and  joyless  night, 
Whence  is  thy  sad  and  solemn  lay! 

Attendant  on  the  pale  moon's  light, 
Why  shun  the  gairish  blaze  of  day  ? 

When  darkness  fills  the  dewy  air, 
Nor  sounds  the  song  of  happier  bird, 

Alone,  amid  the  silence  there, 
Thy  wild  and  plaintive  note  is  heard. 

Thyself  unseen,  thy  pensive  moan 
Pour'd  in  no  living  comrade's  ear, 

The  forest's  shaded  depths  alone 
Thy  mournful  melody  can  hear. 

Beside  what  still  and  secret  spring, 
In  what  dark  wood  the  livelong  day, 

Sett'st  thou  with  dusk  and  folded  wing, 
To  while  the  hours  of  light  away. 

Sad  minstrel !  thou  hast  learn'd,  like  me, 
That  life's  deceitful  gleam  is  vain  ; 

And  well  the  lesson  profits  thee, 
Who  will  not  trust  its  charm  again. 

Thou,  unbeguiled,  thy  plaint  dost  trill 
To  listening  night,  when  mirth  is  o'er : 

I,  heedless  of  the  warning,  still 
Believe,  to  be  deceived  once  more. 


GRENVILLE   MELLEN. 
MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

MOUNT  of  the  clouds,  on  whose  Olympian  height 
The  tall  rocks  brighten  in  the  ether  air, 
And  spirits  from  the  skies  come  down  at  night, 
To  chant  immortal  songs  to  freedom  there ! 

U2 


234  GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 

Thine  is  the  rock  of  other  regions  ;  where 
The  world  of  life,  which  blooms  so  far  below, 
Sweeps  a  wide  waste :  no  gladdening  scenes  ap 
pear, 

Save  where,  with  silvery  flash,  the  waters  flow 
Beneath  the  far  off  mountain,  distant,  calm,  and  slow. 

Thine  is  the  summit  where  the  clouds  repose, 
Or  eddying  wildly  round  thy  cliffs  are  borne ; 
When  Tempest  mounts  his  rushing  car,  and  throws 
His  billowy  mist  amid  the  thunder's  home  ! 
Far  down  the  deep  ravines  the  whirlwinds  come, 
And  bow  the  forests  as  they  sweep  along  ; 
While,  roaring  deeply  from  their  rocky  womb, 
The  storms  come  forth,  and,  hurrying  darkly  on, 
Amid  the  echoing  peaks  the  revelry  prolong ! 

And  when  the  tumult  of  the  air  is  fled, 
And  quench'd  in  silence  all  the  tempest  flame, 
There  come  the  dim  forms  of  tho  mighty  dead, 
Around  the  steep  which  bears  the  hero's  name, 
The  stars  look  down  upon  them ;  and  the  same 
Pale  orb  that  glistens  o'er  his  distant  grave, 
Gleams  on  the  summit  that  enshrines  his  fame, 
And  lights  the  cold  tear  of  the  glorious  brave, 
The  richest,  purest  tear  that  memory  ever  gave ! 

Mount  of  the  clouds!   when  winter  round  thee 

throws 

The  hoary  mantle  of  the  dying  year, 
Sublime  amid  thy  canopy  of  snows, 
Thy  towers  in  bright  magnificence  appear ! 
'Tis  then  we  view  thee  with  a  chilling  fear, 
Till  summer  robes  thee  in  her  tints  of  blue ; 
When,  lo  !  in  soften'd  grandeur  far  yet  clear, 
Thy  battlements  stand  clothed  in  Heaven's  own 

hue, 
To  swell  as  Freedom's  home  on  man's  unbounded 


view 


ANNA  MARIA  WELLS.         235 
JAMES  G.  BROOKS. 

JOY    AND    SORROW. 

JOY  kneels,  at  morning's  rosy  prime, 

In  worship  to  the  rising  sun ; 
But  Sorrow  loves  the  calmer  time, 

When  the  day-god  his  course  hath  run : 
When  Night  is  in  her  shadowy  car, 

Pale  Sorrow  wakes  while  Joy  doth  sleep ; 
And,  guided  by  the  evening  star, 

She  wanders  forth  to  muse  and  weep. 

Joy  loves  to  cull  the  summer  flower, 

And  wreath  it  round  his  happy  brow ; 
But  when  the  dark  autumnal  hour 

Hath  laid  the  leaf  and  blossom  low ; 
When  the  frail  bud  hath  lost  its  worth, 

And  Joy  hath  dash'd  it  from  his  crest, 
Then  Sorrow  takes  it  from  the  earth, 

To  wither  on  her  wither'd  breast. 


ANNA  MARIA   WELLS. 
THE  WHITE  HARE. 

IT  was  the  Sabbath  eve  :  we  went, 
My  little  girl  and  I,  intent 

The  twilight  hour  to  pass, 
Where  we  might  hear  the  waters  flow, 
And  scent  the  freighted  winds  that  blow 

Athwart  the  vernal  grass. 

In  darker  grandeur,  as  the  day 
Stole  scarce  perceptibly  away, 

The  purple  mountain  stood, 
Wearing  the  young  moon  as  a  crest : 
The  sun,  half  sunk  in  the  far  west, 

Seem'd  mingling  with  the  flood. 


S36  ANNA   MARIA   WELLS. 

The  cooling  dews  their  balm  distill'd ; 
A  holy  joy  our  bosoms  thrill'd  ; 

Our  thoughts  were  free  as  air ; 
And  by  one  impulse  moved,  did  we 
Together  pour,  instinctively, 

Our  songs  of  gladness  there. 

The  green-wood  waved  its  shade  hard  by, 
While  thus  we  wove  our  harmony  : 

Lured  by  the  mystic  strain, 
A  snow-white  hare,  that  long  had  been 
Peering  from  forth  her  covert  green, 

Came  bounding  o'er  the  plain. 

Her  beauty  'twas  a  joy  to  note  ; 
The  pureness  of  her  downy  coat, 

Her  wild,  yet  gentle  eye  ; 
The  pleasure  that,  despite  her  fear, 
Had  led  the  timid  thing  so  near, 

To  list  our  minstrelsy  ! 

All  motionless,  with  head  inclined, 
She  stood,  as  if  her  heart  divined 

The  impulses  of  ours, 
Till  the  last  note  had  died,  and  then 
Turn'd  half  reluctantly  again 

Back  to  her  green-wood  bowers. 

Once  more  the  magic  sounds  we  tried ; 
Again  the  hare  was  seen  to  glide 

From  out  her  sylvan  shade  ; 
Again,  as  joy  had  given  her  wings, 
Fleet  as  a  bird  she  forward  springs 

Along  the  dewy  glade. 

Go,  happy  thing !  disport  at  will ; 
Take  thy  delight  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

Or  rest  in  leafy  bower : 
The  harrier  may  beset  thy  way, 
The  cruel  snare  thy  feet  betray ! 

Enjoy  thy  little  hour ! 


CAROLINE    OILMAN.  237 

We  know  not,  and  we  ne'er  may  know, 
The  hidden  springs  of  joy  and  wo 

That  deep  within  thee  lie  : 
The  silent  workings  of  thy  heart, 
They  almost  seem  to  have  a  part 

With  our  humanity ! 


TO   A  YOUNG   MOTHER. 

BELINDA  !  the  young  blossom  that  doth  lie 
So  lightly  on  thy  bosom,  clasp  it  there : 
For  on  her  brow  an  empress  doth  not  wear, 
Nor  in  her  jewell'd  zone,  a  gem  more  fair, 
Or  that  doth  deck  her  more  becomingly. 
Forget  not,  then,  that  deep  within  thy  flower 
The  gerraes  lie  hid  of  lovelier,  holier  things  : 
Filial  affection,  that  spontaneous  springs ; 
High  truth  and  maiden  purity ;  the  power 
That  comes  of  gentleness ;  ay,  and  more, 
Piety,  nourish'd  in  the  bosom's  core  : 
These,  if  so  cherish'd,  shall  thy  blossom  bear, 
And  with  the  dews  of  heavenly  love  impearl'd, 
It  shall  adorn  thee  in  another  world. 


CAROLINE   OILMAN. 


OH,  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  sky  above  ;  your  quiet  bark 

By  soft  winds  bless'd ! 

Still  toil  in  duty  and  commune  with  Heaven, 

World-wean'd  and  free : 
God  to  his  humblest  creatures  room  has  given, 

And  space  to  be. 


238  SARAH   J.   HALE. 

Space  for  the  eagle  in  the  vaulted  sky 

To  plume  his  wing ; 
Space  for  the  ringdove  by  her  young  to  lie, 

And  softly  sing. 

Space  for  the  sunflower,  bright  with  yellow  glow, 

To  court  the  sky ; 
Space  for  the  violet,  where  the  wild  woods  grow, 

To  live  and  die. 

Space  for  the  ocean,  in  its  giant  might, 

To  swell  and  rave  ; 
Space  for  the  river,  tinged  with  rosy  light, 

Where  green  banks  wave. 

Space  for  the  sun,  to  tread  his  path  in  might 

And  golden  pride ; 
Space  for  the  glow-worm,  calling,  by  her  light, 

Love  to  her  side. 

Then,  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  skies  above,  and  your  still  bark 

By  kind  winds  bless'd. 


SARAH   J.   HALE. 

THE    ROSE-TREE    AT    THE    BIRTHPLACE    OF    WASHINGTON. 

BRIGHT  rose !  what  dost  thou  here,  amid 
These  sad  mementoes  of  the  past  1 

The  crumbling  stones  thy  roots  have  hid, 
The  bramble's  shade  is  o'er  thee  cast, 

Yet  still  thy  glowing  beauty  seems 

Fair  as  young  childhood's  happy  dreams. 

The  sunbeam  on  the  heaving  surf 
Proclaims  the  tempest's  rage  is  o'er; 

The  violet,  on  the  frozen  turf, 
Breathes  of  the  smiling  spring  once  more ; 


SARAH   J.  HALE.  239 

But,  rose,  thy  mission  to  the  heart, 
In  things  that  alter,  hath  no  part. 

The  mossgrown  ruins  round  are  spread, 
Scarce  rescued  from  earth's  trodden  mass, 

And  time-scathed  trees,  whose  branches  dead 
Lie  cumbering  o'er  the  matted  grass : 

These  tell  the  tale  of  life's  brief  day, 

Hope,  toil,  enjoyment,  death,  decay ! 

The  common  record  this  of  man, 

We  read,  regret,  and  pass  it  by, 
And  rear  the  towers  that  deck  our  span, 

Above  the  grave  where  nations  lie; 
And  heroes,  who  like  meteors  shone, 
Are,  like  that  meteor's  flashings,  gone. 

But,  radiant  rose,  thy  beauty  breaks 
Like  eve's  first  star  upon  the  sight ; 

A  holier  hue  the  vision  takes, 

The  ruins  shine  with  heaven's  clear  light ; 

His  name,  who  placed  thy  root  in  earth, 

Doth  consecrate  thy  place  oi  birth. 

Yet  'tis  not  here  his  wreath  we  twine, 
Nor  here  that  Freedom's  chief  we  praise , 

The  stars  at  rising  softer  shine, 
Than  when  o'er  night's  dark  vault  they  blaze ; 

Not  here,  with  Washington's  great  name, 

Blend  his  achievements  or  his  fame. 

But  brighter,  holier  is  the  ray 
Which  rests  on  this  devoted  ground ; 

Here  pass'd  his  childhood's  happy  day, 
Here  glory's  bud  meet  culture  found : 

Maternal  smiles,  and  tears,  and  prayer, 

These  were  its  light,  its  dew,  its  air. 

Bright  rose !  for  this  thy  flower  hath  sprung, 
The  mother's  steadfast  love  to  show ; 

Thy  odour  on  the  gale  is  flung, 
As  pours  that  love  its  lavish  flow : 


240  CHARLES    F.   HOFFMAN- 

The  mother's  lot  with  hope  to  cheer, 
Type  of  her  heart,  thou  bloomest  here. 


CHARLES  F.   HOFFMAN. 

INDIAN    SUMMER. 

LIGHT  as  love's  smiles,  the  silvery  mist  at  morn 
Floats  in  loose  flakes  along  the  limpid  river  ; 

The  bluebird's  notes,  upon  the  soft  breeze  borne, 
As  high  in  air  she  carols,  faintly  quiver ; 

The  weeping  birch,  like  banners  idly  waving, 

Bends  to  the  stream,  its  spicy  branches  laving ; 
Beaded  with  dew  the  witch  elm's  tassels  shiver ; 

The  timid  rabbit  from  the  furze  is  peeping,        [ing. 

And  from  the  springy  spray  the  squirrel's  gayly  leap- 

I  love  thee,  Autumn,  for  thy  scenery,  ere 
The  blasts  of  winter  chase  the  varied  dyes 

That  gayly  deck  the  slow-declining  year  ; 
1  love  the  splendour  of  thy  sunset  skies, 

The  gorgeous  hues  that  tinge  each  falling  leaf, 

Lovely  as   Beauty's  cheek,  as  woman's  love  too 

brief; 
I  love  the  note  of  each  wild  bird  that  flies, 

As  on  the  wind  she  pours  her  parting  lay,      [away. 

And  wings  her  loitering  flight  to  summer  climes 

Oh,  Nature  !  still  I  fondly  turn  to  thee 

With  feelings  fresh  as  e'er  my  childhood's  were ; 
Though  wild  and  passion-toss'd  my  youth  may  be, 

Towards  thee  I  still  the  same  devotion  bear ; 
To  thee — to  thee — though  health  and  hope  no  more 
Life's  wasted  verdure  may  to  me  restore — 

I  still  can,  childlike,  come  as  when  in  prayer 
1  bow'd  my  head  upon  a  mother's  knee, 
And  deem'd  the  world,  like  her,  all  truth  and  purity. 


PARK  BENJAMIN.  241 

PARK   BENJAMIN. 


TIME  !  thou  destroy'st  the  relics  of  the  past, 
And  hidest  all  the  footprints  of  thy  march 
On  shatter'd  column  and  on  crumbled  arch, 

By  moss  and  ivy  growing  green  and  fast. 

Hurl'd  into  fragments  by  the  tempest-blast, 
The  Rhodian  monster  lies  :  the  obelisk, 
That  with  sharp  line  divided  the  broad  disc 

Of  Egypt's  sun,  down  to  the  sands  was  cast : 

And  where  these  stood,  no  remnant-trophy  stands, 
And  even  the  art  is  lost  by  which  they  rose : 

Thus,  with  the  monuments  of  other  lands, 
The  place  that  knew  them  now  no  longer  knows. 

Yet  triumph  not,  oh  Time  ;  strong  towers  decay, 

But  a  great  name  shall  never  pass  away ! 


To  see  a  fellow  of  a  summer's  morning, 
With  a  large  foxhound  of  a  slumberous  eye 
And  a  slim  gun,  go  slowly  lounging  by, 
About  to  give  the  feather'd  bipeds  warning, 
That  probably  they  may  be  shot  hereafter, 
Excites  in  me  a  quiet  kind  of  laughter ; 
For,  though  I  am  no  lover  of  the  sport 
Of  harmless  murder,  yet  it  is  to  me 
Almost  the  funniest  thing  on  earth  to  see 
A  corpulent  person,  breathing  with  a  snort, 

Go  on  a  shooting  frolic  all  alone  ; 
For  well  I  know  that  when  he's  out  of  town, 
He  and  his  dog  and  gun  will  all  lie  down, 

And  undestructive  sleep  till  game  and  light  are 
flown. 

X 


242  WILLIAM    B.    TAPPAN. 


WILLIAM   B.    TAPPAN. 

THE   TWENTY  THOUSAND   CHILDREN  OF   THE  SABBATH   SCHOOLS 

IN    NEW-YORK,    CELEBRATING    TOGETHER    THE    FOURTH    OF 

JULY,     1839. 

OH,  sight  sublime !  oh,  sight  of  fear ! 

The  shadowing  of  infinity ! 
Numbers !  whose  murmur  rises  here 

Like  whisperings  of  the  mighty  sea. 

Ye  bring  strange  vision  to  my  gaze ; 

Earth's  dreamer,  heaven  before  me  swims ; 
The  sea  of  glass,  the  throne  of  days, 
Crowns,  harps,  and  the  melodious  hymns. 

Ye  rend  the  air  with  grateful  songs 
For  freedom  by  old  warriors  won : 

Oh,  for  the  battle  which  your  throngs 
May  wage  and  win  through  David's  Son ! 

Wealth  of  young  beauty  !  that  now  blooms 
Before  me  like  a  world  of  flowers  ; 

High  expectation !  that  assumes 
The  hue  of  life's  serenest  hours, 

Are  ye  decaying  ?    Must  these  forms, 

So  agile,  fair,  and  brightly  gay, 
Hidden  in  dust,  be  given  to  worms 

And  everlasting  night  the  prey  ? 

Are  ye  immortal  ?    Will  this  mass 

Of  life,  be  life,  undying  still, 
When  all  these  sentient  thousands  pass 

To  where  corruption  works  its  will  ? 

Thought !  that  takes  hold  of  heaven  and  hell, 

Be  in  each  teacher's  heart  to-day  ! 
So  shall  Eternity  be  well 

With  these,  when  Time  has  fled  away. 


GEORGE    LUNT.  243 


GEORGE    LUNT. 

AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 

COME  thou  with  me !     If  thou  hast  worn  away 
All  this  most  glorious  summer  in  the  crowd, 
Amid  the  dust  of  cities,  and  the  din, 
"While  birds  were  carolling  on  every  spray ; 
If,  from  gray  dawn  to  solemn  night's  approach, 
Thy  soul  hath  wasted  all  its  better  thoughts, 
Toiling  and  panting  for  a  little  gold  ; 
Drudging  amid  the  very  lees  of  life 
For  this  accursed  slave  that  makes  men  slaves  ; 
Come  thou  with  me  into  the  pleasant  fields, 
Let  Nature  breathe  on  us  and  make  us  free  ! 

For  thou  shalt  hold  communion,  pure  and  high, 
With  the  great  Spirit  of  the  Universe  ; 
It  shall  pervade  thy  soul ;  it  shall  renew 
The  fancies  of  thy  boyhood  :  thou  shalt  know 
Tears,  most  unwonted  tears  dimming  thine  eyes ; 
Thou  shalt  forget,  under  the  old  brown  oak, 
That  the  good  south-wind  and  the  liberal  west 
Have  other  tidings  than  the  songs  of  birds, 
Or  the  soft  news  wafted  from  fragrant  flowers. 
Look  out  on  Nature's  face,  and  what  hath  she 
In  common  with  thy  feelings  ?     That  brown  hill, 
Upon  whose  sides,  from  the  gray  mountain  ash, 
We  gather'd  crimson  berries,  look'd  as  brown 
When  the  leaves  fell  twelve  autumn  suns  ago  ; 
This  pleasant  stream,  with  the  well-shaded  verge, 
On  whose  fair  surface  have  our  buoyant  limbs 
So  often  play'd,  caressing  and  caress'd ; 
Its  verdant  banks  are  green  as  then  they  were, 
So  went  its  bubbling  murmur  down  the  tide. 
Yes,  and  the  very  trees,  those  ancient  oaks, 
The  crimson-crested  maple,  feathery  elm, 
And  fair,  smooth  ash,  with  leaves  of  graceful  gold, 
Look  like  familiar  faces  of  old  friends. 


244  GEORGE    LUNT. 

From  their  broad  branches  drop  the  wither'd  leaves, 

Drop,  one  by  one,  without  a  single  breath, 

Save  when  some  eddying  curl  round  the  old  roots 

Twirls  them  about  in  merry  sport  a  while. 

They  are  not  changed;  their  office  is  not  done  ; 

The  first  soft  breeze  of  spring  shall  see  them  fresh 

With  sprouting  twigs  bursting  from  every  branch, 

As  should  fresh  feelings  from  our  wither'd  hearts. 

Scorn  not  the  moral ;  for,  while  these  have  warm'd 

To  annual  beauty,  gladdening  the  fields 

With  new  and  ever-glorious  garniture, 

Thou  hast  grown  worn  and  wasted,  almost  gray 

Even  in  thy  very  summer.     'Tis  for  this 

We  have  neglected  nature !     Wearing  out 

Our  hearts  and  all  life's  dearest  charities 

In  the  perpetual  turmoil,  when  we  need 

To  strengthen  and  to  purify  our  minds 

Amid  the  venerable  woods  ;  to  hold 

Chaste  converse  with  the  fountains  and  the  winds ! 

So  should  we  elevate  our  souls ;  so  be 

Ready  to  stand  and  act  a  nobler  part 

In  the  hard,  heartless  struggles  of  the  world. 

Day  wanes  ;  'tis  autumn  eventide  again ; 
And,  sinking  on  the  blue  hills'  breast,  the  sun 
Spreads  the  large  bounty  of  his  level  blaze, 
Lengthening  the  shades  of  mountains  and  tall  trees, 
And  throwing  blacker  shadows  o'er  the  sheet 
Of  this  dark  stream,  in  whose  unruffled  tide 
Waver  the  bank-shrub  and  the  graceful  elm, 
As  the  gay  branches  and  their  trembling  leaves 
Catch  the  soft  whisper  of  the  coming  air : 
So  doth  it  mirror  every  passing  cloud, 
And  those  which  fill  the  chambers  of  the  west 
With  such  strange  beauty,  fairer  than  all  thrones, 
Blazon'd  with  orient  gems  and  barbarous  gold. 
I  see  thy  full  heart  gathering  in  thine  eyes  ; 
I  see  those  eyes  swelling  with  precious  tears ; 
But,  if  thou  couldst  have  look'd  upon  this  scene 


EPES    SARGENT.  245 

With  a  cold  brow,  and  then  turn'd  back  to  thoughts 

Of  traffic  in  thy  fellow's  wretchedness, 

Thou  wert  not  fit  to  gaze  upon  the  face 

Of  Nature's  naked  beauty ;  most  unfit 

To  look  on  fairer  things,  the  loveliness 

Of  earth's  most  lovely  daughters,  whose  glad  forms 

And  glancing  eyes  do  kindle  the  great  souls 

Of  better  men  to  emulate  pure  thoughts, 

And,  in  high  action,  all  ennobling  deeds. 

But  lo !  the  harvest  moon !     She  climbs  as  fair 

Among  the  cluster'd  jewels  of  the  sky, 

As,  mid  the  rosy  bowers  of  paradise, 

Her  soft  light,  trembling  upon  leaf  and  flower, 

Smiled  o'er  the  slumbers  of  the  first-born  man. 

And,  while  her  beauty  is  upon  our  hearts, 

Now  let  us  seek  our  quiet  home,  that  sleep 

May  come  without  bad  dreams  ;  may  come  as  light 

As  to  that  yellow-headed  cottage-boy, 

Whose  serious  musings,  as  he  homeward  drives 

His  sober  herd,  are  of  the  frosty  dawn, 

And  the  ripe  nuts  which  his  own  hand  shall  pluck. 

Then,  when  the  bird,  high-courier  of  the  morn, 

Looks  from  his  airy  vantage  o'er  the  world, 

And,  by  the  music  of  his  mounting  flight, 

Tells  many  blessed  things  of  gushing  gold, 

Coming  in  floods  o'er  the  eastern  wave, 

Will  we  arise,  and  our  pure  orisons 

Shall  keep  us  in  the  trials  of  the  day. 


EPES   SARGENT. 

A    WISH. 


THAT  I  were  in  some  forest's  green  retreat, 
Beneath  a  towering  arch  of  proud  old  elms. 

Where  a  clear  streamlet  gurgled  at  my  feet, 
Its  wavelets  glittering  in  their  tiny  helms ! 
X2 


246  JOHN   NEAL. 

Thick,  clustering  vines,  in  many  a  rich  festoon, 

From  the  high,  rustling  branches  should  depend, 
Weaving  a  net  through  which  the  sultry  noon 

Might  stoop  in  vain  its  fiery  darts  to  send. 
There,  prostrate  on  some  rock's  gray  sloping  side, 

Upon  Avhose  tinted  moss  the  dew  yet  lay, 
Would  I  catch  glimpses  of  the  clouds  that  ride 

Athwart  the  sky,  and  dream  the  hours  away  ; 
While,  through  the  alleys  of  the  sunless  wood, 
The  fanning  breeze  might  steal,  with  wild  flowers' 
breath  imbued. 


JOHN   NEAL. 
THE  SOLDIER'S  VISIT  TO  HIS  FAMILY. 

AND  there  the  stranger  stays  :  beneath  that  oak, 
Whose  shatter'd  majesty  hath  felt  the  stroke 
Of  heaven's  own  thunder — yet  it  proudly  heaves, 
A  giant  sceptre  wreathed  with  blasted  leaves — 
As  though  it  dared  the  elements,  and  stood 
The  guardian  of  that  cot,  the  monarch  of  that  wood. 

Beneath  its  venerable  vault  he  stands  : 
And  one  might  think,  who  saw  his  outstretch'd  hands, 
That  something  more  than  soldiers  e'er  may  feel, 
Had  touch'd  him  with  its  holy,  calm  appeal : 
That  yonder  wave — the  heaven — the  earth — the  air 
Had  call'd  upon  his  spirit  for  her  prayer. 
His  eye  goes  dimly  o'er  the  midnight  scene  ; 
The  oak — the  cot — the  wood— the  faded  green — 
The  moon — the  sky — the  distant  moving  light — 
All !  all  are  gathering  on  his  dampen'd  sight. 
His  warrior  helm  and  plume,  his  fresh-dyed  blade, 
Beneath  a  window  on  the  turf  are  laid  ; 
The  panes  are  ruddy  through  the  clambering  vines 
And  blushing  leaves,  that  Summer  intertwines 
In  warmer  tints  than  e'er  luxuriant  Spring, 
O'er  flower-imbosom'd  roof  led  wandering. 


JOHN   NBAL.  247 

His  pulses  quicken :  for  a  rude  old  door 
Is  open'd  by  the  wind :  he  sees  the  floor, 
Strevv'd  with  white  sand,  on  which  he  used  to  trace 
His  boyhood's  battles,  and  assign  a  place 
To  charging  hosts,  and  give  the  Indian  yell, 
And  shout  to  hear  his  hoary  grandsire  tell 
How  he  had  fought  with  savages,  whose  breath 
He  felt  upon  his  cheek  like  mildew  till  his  death. 

Hark !  that  sweet  song,  how  full  of  tenderness  ! 
Oh !  who  would  breathe  in  this  voluptuous  press 
Of  lulling  thoughts !  so  soothing  and  so  low, 
Like  singing  fountains  in  their  faintest  flow  : 
It  is  as  if  some  holy,  lovely  thing, 
Within  our  very  hearts  were  murmuring. 
The  soldier  listens,  and  his  arms  are  pressed 
In  thankfulness,  and  trembling  on  his  breast : 
Now,  on  the  very  window  where  he  stands 
Are  seen  a  clambering  infant's  rosy  hands  : 
And  now — ah  Heaven  !  blessings  on  that  smile ! 
Stay,  soldier,  stay !  oh  linger  yet  a  while  ! 
An  airy  vision  now  appears,  with  eyes 
As  tender  as  the  blue  of  weeping  skies : 
Yet  sunny  in  their  radiance,  as  that  blue 
When  sunset  glitters  on  its  falling  dew  : 
With  form — all  joy  and  dance — as  bright  and  free 
As  youthful  nymph  of  mountain  liberty , 
Or  naked  angels  clream'd  by  poesy : 
A  blooming  infant  to  her  heart  is  press'd, 
And  ah !  a  mother's  song  is  lulling  it  to  rest. 

A  single  bound !  our  chief  is  standing  by, 
Trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  ecstasy ;      [love  ! 
"  Bless  thee  !"  at  length  he  murmur'd,  "  bless  thee, 
My  wife !  my  boy  !"     Their  eyes  are  raised  above. 
His  soldier's  tread  of  sounding  strength  is  gone, 
A  choking  transport  drowns  his  manly  tone. 
He  sees  the  closing  of  that  mild  blue  eye, 
His  bosom  echoes  to  a  faint  low  cry : 
His  glorious  boy  springs  freshly  from  his  sleep ; 
Shakes  his  thin  sun-curls,  while  his  eyebeams  leap 


248  ROBERT   M.   CHARLTON. 

As  half  in  fear,  along  the  stranger's  dress, 
Then,  half  advancing,  yields  to  his  caress : 
Then  peers  beneath  his  looks,  and  seeks  his  eye 
With  the  clear  look  of  radiant  infancy, 
The  cherub  smile  of  love,  the  azure  of  the  sky. 

The  stranger  now  is  kneeling  by  the  side 
Of  that  young  mother,  watching  for  the  tide 
Of  her  returning  life  :  it  comes  :  a  glow 
Goes  faintly,  slowly  o'er  her  cheek  and  brow : 
A  rising  of  the  gauze  that  lightly  shrouds 
A  snowy  breast,  like  twilight's  melting  clouds, 
In  nature's  pure,  still  eloquence,  betrays 
The  feelings  of  the  heart  that  reels  beneath  his  gaze. 


ROBERT   M.    CHARLTON. 

TO    THE    KIVER    OGEECHEE. 

OH  wave  that  glidest  swiftly 

On  thy  bright  and  happy  way, 
From  the  morning  until  evening, 

And  from  twilight  until  day, 
Why  leapest  thou  so  joyously, 

While  coldly  on  thy  shore 
Sleeps  the  noble  and  the  gallant  heart, 

For  aye  and  evermore  1 

Or  dost  thou  weep,  oh  river, 

And  is  this  bounding  wave, 
But  the  tear  thy  bosom  sheddeth 

As  a  tribute  o'er  his  grave  ? 
And  when,  in  midnight's  darkness, 

The  winds  above  thee  moan, 
Are  they  mourning  for  our  sorrows, 

Do  they  sigh  for  him  that's  gone  ? 

Keep  back  thy  tears,  then,  river, 

Or,  if  they  must  be  shed, 
Let  them  flow  but  for  the  living, 

They're  needless  for  the  dead. 


JONES    VERY.  249 

His  soul  shall  dwell  in  glory, 

Where  bounds  a  brighter  wave, 
But  our  pleasures,  with  his  troubles, 

Are  buried  in  the  grave. 


JONES   VERY. 
TO  THE  CANARY-BIRD. 

I  CANNOT  hear  thy  voice  with  others'  ears, 
Who  make  of  thy  lost  liberty  a  gain ; 
And  in  thy  tale  of  blighted  hopes  and  fears 
Feel  not  that  every  note  is  bora  with  pain. 
Alas !  that  with  thy  music's  gentle  swell 
Past  days  of  joy  should  through  thy  memory 

throng, 

And  each  to  thee  their  words  of  sorrow  tell, 
While  ravish'd  sense  forgets  thee  in  thy  song. 
The  heart  that  on  the  past  and  future  feeds, 
And  pours  in  human  words  its  thoughts  divine, 
Though  at  each  birth  the  spirit  inly  bleeds, 
Its  song  may  charm  the  listening  ear  like  thine, 
And  men  with  gilded  cage  and  praise  will  try 
To  make  the  bard,  like  thee,  forget  his  native  sky. 


THE    TREE. 

I  LOVE  thee  when  thy  swelling  buds  appear, 
And  one  by  one  their  tender  leaves  unfold, 
As  if  they  knew  that  warmer  suns  were  near, 
Nor  longer  sought  to  hide  from  winter's  cold ; 
And  when  with  darker  growth  thy  leaves  are  seen 
To  veil  from  view  the  early  robin's  nest, 
I  love  to  lie  beneath  thy  waving  screen 
With  limbs  by  summer's  heat  and  toil  oppress'd ; 


250  JONES    VERY. 

And  when  the  autumn  winds  have  stripp'd  thee 

bare, 

And  round  thee  lies  the  smooth  untrodden  snow, 
When  naught  is  thine  that  made  thee  once  so  fair, 
I  love  to  watch  thy  shadowy  form  below, 
And  through  thy  leafless  arms  to  look  above 
On  stars  that  brighter  beam  when  most  we  need  their 
love. 


THE    WIND-FLOWER. 

THOU  lookest  up  with  meek,  confiding  eye 
Upon  the  clouded  smile  of  April's  face, 
Unharm'd,  though  Winter  stands  uncertain  by, 
Eying  with  jealous  glance  each  opening  grace. 
Thou  trustest  wisely !  in  thy  faith  array'd, 
More  glorious  thou  than  Israel's  wisest  king ; 
Such  faith  was  his  whom  men  to  death  betray'd, 
As  thine  who  hear'st  the  timid  voice  of  Spring, 
While  other  flowers  still  hide  them  from  her  call, 
Along  the  river's  brink  and  meadow  bare. 
Thee  will  I  seek  beside  the  stony  wall, 
And  in  thy  trust  with  childlike  heart  would  share, 
O'erjoyed  that  in  thy  early  leaves  I  find 
A  lesson  taught  by  him  who  loved  all  human  kind. 


FATHER,  I  wait  thy  word.     The  sun  doth  stand 
Beneath  the  mingling  line  of  night  and  day, 
A  listening  servant,  waiting  thy  command 
To  roll  rejoicing  on  its  silent  way  ; 
The  tongue  of  Time  abides  the  appointed  hour, 
Till  on  our  ear  its  solemn  warnings  fall ; 
The  heavy  cloud  withholds  the  pelting  shower, 
Then  every  drop  speeds  onward  at  thy  call ; 


JONES   VERY.  251 

The  bird  reposes  on  the  yielding  bough, 
With  breast  unswollen  by  the  tide  of  song. 
So  does  my  spirit  wait  thy  presence  now 
To  pour  thy  praise  in  quickening  life  along, 
Chiding  with  voice  divine  man's  lengthen'd  sleep, 
While  round  the  U nutter 'd  Word  and  Love  their 
vigils  keep. 


I  LOOK'D  to  find  a  man  who  walk'd  with  God, 

Like  the  translated  patriarch  of  old ; 

Though  gladden'd  millions  on  his  footstool  trod, 

Yet  none  with  him  did  such  sweet  converse  hold ; 

I  heard  the  wind  in  low  complaint  go  by, 

That  none  its  melodies  like  him  could  hear  ; 

Day  unto  day  spoke  wisdom  from  on  high, 

Yet  none,  like  David,  turn'd  a  willing  ear ; 

God  walk'd  alone  unhonour'd  through  the  earth; 

For  him  no  heart-built  temple  open  stood; 

The  soul,  forgetful  of  her  nobler  birth, 

Had  hewn  him  lofty  shrines  of  stone  and  wood, 

And  left  unfinish'd  and  in  ruins  still 

The  only  temple  he  delights  to  fill. 


THE    LIVING    GOD. 


THERE  is  no  death  with  Thee !    Each  plant  and  tree 
In  living  haste  their  stems  push  onward  still ; 
The  pointed  blade,  each  rooted  trunk  we  see, 
In  various  movement  all  attest  thy  will. 
The  vine  must  die  when  its  long  race  is  run, 
The  tree  must  fall  when  it  no  more  can  rise  ;, 
The  worm  has  at  its  root  his  task  bugun, 
And  hour  by  hour  his  steady  labour  plies  ; 


252 


FRANCES    SARGENT    OSGOOD. 


Nor  man  can  pause,  but  in  thy  will  must  grow, 
And,  as  his  roots  within  more  deep  extend, 
He  shall  o'er  sons  of  sons  his  branches  throw, 
And  to  the  latest  born  his  shadows  lend  ; 
Nor  know  in  thee  disease  nor  length  of  days, 
But  lift  his  head  for  ever  in  thy  praise. 


FRANCES    SARGENT   OSGOOD. 
THE  MORNING  WALK,  OR  THE  STOLEN  BLUSH. 

NEVER  tell  me  that  cheek  is  not  painted,  false  maid ! 

'Tis  a  fib,  though  your  pretty  lip  parts  while  I  say 
And  if  the  cheat  were  not  already  betray'd,  [it ; 

Those  exquisite  blushes  themselves  would  be 
tray  it. 

But  listen !     This  morning  you  rose  ere  the  dawn, 
To  keep  an  appointment,  perhaps — with  Apollo ; 

And,  finding  a  fairy  footprint  on  the  lawn 

Which  I  could  not  mistake,  I  determined  to  follow. 

To  the  hillside  I  track'd  it,  and,  tripping  above  me, 
Her  sun-ringlets  flying  and  jewell'd  with  dew, 

A  maiden  I  saw !     Now  the  truth,  if  you  love  me — 
But  why  should  I  question — I'm  sure  it  was  you. 

And  you  cannot  deny  you  were  met  in  ascending — 
I,  meanwhile,  pursuing  my  truant  by  stealth — 

By  a  blooming  young  seraph,  who  turn'd,  and,  attend 
ing 
Your  steps,  said  her  name  was  the  Spirit  of  Health. 

Meantime,  through  the  mist  of  transparent  vermilion 
That  suddenly  flooded  the  brow  of  the  hill, 

All  fretted  with  gold  rose  Aurora's  pavilion, 
Illumining  meadow,  and  mountain,  and  rill. 


ANDREW    NORTON.  253 

And  Health,  floating  up  through  the  luminous  air, 
Dipp'd  her  fingers  of  snow  in  those  clouds  grow 
ing  bright ; 

Then  turn'd,  and  dash'd  down  o'er  her  votary  fair 
A  handful  of  rose-beams  that  bathed  her  in  light. 

Even  yet  they're  at  play  here  and  there  in  your  form, 
Through  your  fingers  they  steal  to  your  white 
taper  tips, 

Now  rush  to  that  cheek  its  soft  dimples  to  warm, 
Now  deepen  the  crimson  that  lives  in  your  lips. 

Will  you  tell  me  again,  with  that  scorn-lighted  eye, 
That  you  do  not  use  paint,  while  such  tinting  is 

there "? 
While  the  glow  still  affirms  what  the  glance  would 

deny? 
No,  in  future  disclaim  the  sweet  theft,  if  you  dare ! 


ANDREW  NORTON. 
SCENE  AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

THE  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright 
Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 
Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky ! 

In  grateful  silence,  earth  receives 
The  general  blessing ;  fresh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  soften'd  sunbeams  pour  around 
A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale ; 

The  wind  flows  cool ;  the  scented  ground 
Is  breathing  odours  on  the  gale. 


254  W.    0.    P.    PEABODY. 

Mid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 
Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 

Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  a  while, 
Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth  ;  from  off  the  scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung ; 

A.nd  all  the  wilderness  of  green 
With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  Nature — yet  the  same — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fann'd, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 
Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above  ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 
And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence  ;  lowborn  Care, 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  Desire, 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air, 
And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


W.  0.  P.  PEABODY. 

HYMN    OF    NATURE. 

GOD  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  ! 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie  : 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky : 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 


W.    0.   P.    PEABODY.  255 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep  ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  suramon'd  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dash'd  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calm'd  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee  ; 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  airy  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh, 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry — 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings  ! 
Each  brilliant  star  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above  ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 


256  W.    O.    P.    PEABODY. 

For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 
And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 

Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 
Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world !  the  hour  must  come, 

And  Nature's  self  to  dust  return ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay  ; 

Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn  ; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


THE    AUTUMN    EVENING. 

BEHOLD  the  western  evening  light ! 

It  melts  in  deepening  gloom  ; 
So  calmly  Christians  sink  away, 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

The  wind  breathes  low ;  the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  whispers  from  the  tree  ; 

So  gently  flows  the  parting  breath, 
When  good  men  cease  to  be. 

How  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 

The  crimson  light  is  shed ! 
'Tis  like  the  peace  the  Christian  gives 

To  mourners  round  his  bed. 

How  mildly  on  the  wandering  cloud 

The  sunset  beam  is  cast ! 
'Tis  like  the  memory  left  behind 

When  loved  ones  breathe  their  last. 

And  now,  above  the  dews  of  night, 

The  yellow  star  appears  ; 
So  faith  springs  in  the  heart  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  bathed  in  tears. 


ELIZABETH   TOWNSEND.  257 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glory  shall  restore, 
And  eyelids  that  are  seal'd  in  death 

Shall  wake  to  close  no  more. 


ELIZABETH   TOWNSEND. 

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  OP  GOD. 

WHERE  art  thou  1     Thou !  Source  and  Support  of 
That  is  or  seen  or  felt ;  Thyself  unseen,  [all 

Unfelt,  unknown — alas !  unknowable  ! 
I  look  abroad  among  thy  works  :  the  sky, 
Vast,  distant,  glorious  with  its  world  of  suns, 
Life-giving  earth,  and  ever-moving  main, 
And  speaking  winds,  and  ask  if  these  are  Thee ! 
The  stars  that  twinkle  on,  the  eternal  hills, 
The  restless  tide's  outgoing  and  return, 
The  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air — 
Though  hailed  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less — 
Are  not  the  Power  I  seek ;  are  thine,  not  Thee ! 
I  ask  Thee  from  the  past ;  if  in  the  years, 
Since  first  Intelligence  could  search  its  source, 
Or  in  some  former,  unremember'd  being 
(If  such,  perchance,  were  mine),  did  they  behold 
And  next  interrogate  Futurity —  [Thee  ] 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 
Than  e'er  experience  own'd — but  both  are  mute ; 
And  past  and  future,  vocal  on  all  else, 
So  full  of  memories  and  phantasies, 
Are  deaf  and  speechless  here !     Fatigued,  I  turn 
From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements  ; 
And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  in- 
From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  guest,    [ward. 
If,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul, 
He  may  vouchsafe  himself,  Spirit  to  spirit ! 
Oh  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired, 
Pavilion'd  still  in  darkness,  wilt  thou  hide  thee  ? 
Y2 


258  HENRY    WARE,    JR. 

What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate. 
Nor  human  eye  may  look  on  thine  and  live  ] 
Welcome  the  penalty  !  let  that  come  now 
Which  soon  or  late  must  come.     For  light  like  this 
Who  would  not  dare  to  die  ? 

Peace,  my  proud  aim, 

And  hush  the  wish  that  knows  not  what  it  asks. 
Await  his  will,  who  hath  appointed  this 
With  every  other  trial.     Be  that  will 
Done  now  as  ever.     For  thy  curious  search, 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him — the  Unreveal'd — learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  highest  hope  with  humbleness. 
Pass  thy  novitiate  in  these  outer  courts, 
Till  rent  the  veil,  no  longer  separating 
The  holiest  of  all ;  as  erst  disclosing 
A  brighter  dispensation  ;  whose  results 
Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 
E'en  to  the  perfecting  thyself,  thy  kind, 
Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude, 
By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  heaven 
Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart ! 


HENRY  WARE,  JR. 

TO  THE  URSA  MAJOR. 

WITH  what  a  stately  and  majestic  step 
That  glorious  constellation  of  the  north 
Treads  its  eternal  circle !  going  forth 
Its  princely  way  among  the  stars  in  slow 
And  silent  brightness.     Mighty  one,  all  hail ! 
I  joy  to  see  thee  on  thy  glowing  path 
Walk,  like  some  stout  and  girded  giant ;  stern, 
Unwearied,  resolute,  whose  toiling  foot 
Disdains  to  loiter  on  its  destined  way. 
The  other  tribes  forsake  their  midnight  track, 


HENRY    WARE,    JR.  259 

And  rest  their  weary  orbs  beneath  the  wave  ; 
But  thou  dost  never  close  thy  burning  eye. 
Nor  stay  thy  steadfast  step.     But  on,  still  on, 
While  systems  change,  and  suns  retire,  and  worlds 
Slumber  and  wake,  thy  ceaseless  march  proceeds. 
The  near  horizon  tempts  to  rest  in  vain. 
Thou,  faithful  sentinel,  dost  never  quit 
Thy  long  appointed  watch ;  but,  sleepless  still, 
Dost  guard  the  fix'd  light  of  the  universe, 
And  bid  the  north  for  ever  know  its  place. 
Ages  have  witness'd  thy  devoted  trust, 
Unchanged,  unchanging.     When  the  sons  of  God 
Sent  forth  that  shout  of  joy  which  rang  through 

heaven, 

And  echoed  from  the  outer  spheres  that  bound 
The  illimitable  universe,  thy  voice 
Join'd  the  high  chorus  ;  from  thy  radiant  orbs 
The  glad  cry  sounded,  swelling  to  His  praise, 
Who  thus  had  cast  another  sparkling  gem, 
Little,  but  beautiful,  amid  the  crowd 
Of  splendours  that  enrich  his  firmament. 
As  thou  art  now,  so  wast  thou  then  the  same. 
Ages  have  roll'd  their  course,  and  time  grown  gray  ; 
The  earth  has  gather'd  to  her  womb  again, 
And,  yet  again,  the  myriads  that  were  born 
Of  her  uncounted,  unremember'd  tribes. 
The  seas  have  changed  their  beds  ;  the  eternal  hills 
Have  stoop'd  with  age  ;  the  solid  continents 
Have  left  their  banks  ;  and  man's  imperial  works — 
The  toil,  pride,  strength  of  kingdoms,  which  had  flung 
Their  haughty  honours  in  the  face  of  Heaven, 
As  if  immortal — have  been  swept  away  : 
Shatter'd  and  mouldering,  buried  and  forgot. 
But  time  has  shed  no  dimness  on  thy  front, 
Nor  touch'd  the   firmness    of  thy   tread;    youth, 

strength, 

And  beauty  still  are  thine  ;  as  clear,  as  bright, 
As  when  the  Almighty  Former  sent  thee  forth, 
Beautiful  offspring  of  his  curious  skill, 


HENRY    WARE,    JR. 

To  watch  earth's  northern  beacon,  and  proclaim 
The  eternal  chorus  of  eternal  Love. 

I  wonder  as  I  gaze.     That  stream  of  light, 
Undimm'd,  unquench'd — just  as  I  see  it  now — 
Has  issued  from  those  dazzling  points  through  years 
That  go  back  far  into  eternity. 
Exhaustless  flood !  for  ever  spent,  renew'd 
For  ever  !     Yea,  and  those  refulgent  drops, 
Which  now  descend  upon  my  lifted  eye, 
Left  their  far  fountain  twice  three  years  ago. 
While  those  winged  particles,  whose  speed  outstrips 
The  flight  of  thought,  were  on  their  way,  the  earth 
Compass'd  its  tedious  circuit  round  and  round, 
And,  in  the  extremes  of  annual  change,  beheld 
Six  autumns  fade,  six  springs  renew  their  bloom. 
So  far  from  earth  those  mighty  orbs  revolve  ! 
So  vast  the  void  through  which  their  beams  descend ! 

Yes,  glorious  lamp  of  God !   He  may  have  quench'd 
^Tour  ancient  flames,  and  bid  eternal  night 
Rest  on  your  spheres  ;  and  yet  no  tidings  reach 
This  distant  planet.     Messengers  still  come 
Laden  with  your  far  fire,  and  we  may  seem 
To  see  your  lights  still  burning ;  while  their  blaze 
But  hides  the  black  wreck  of  extinguish'd  realms, 
Where  anarchy  and  darkness  long  have  reign'd. 

Yet  what  is  this,  which  to  the  astonish'd  mind 
Seems  measureless,  and  which  the  baffled  thought 
Confounds  ?     A  span,  a  point,  in  those  domains 
Which  the  keen  eye  can  traverse.     Seven  stars 
Dwell  in  that  brilliant  cluster,  and  the  sight 
Embraces  all  at  once  ;  yet  each  from  each 
Recedes  as  far  as  each  of  them  from  earth. 
And  every  star  from  every  other  burns 
No  less  remote.     From  the  profaund  of  heaven, 
Untravell'd  even  in  thought,  keen,  piercing  rays 
Dart  through  the  void,  revealing  to  the  sense 
Systems  and  worlds  unnmnber'd.     Take  the  glass 
And  search  the  skies.     The  opening  skies  pour  down 
Upon  your  gaze  thick  showers  of  sparkling  fire  ; 


HENRY    WARE,   JR.  261 

Stars,  crowded,  throng'd,  in  regions  so  remote, 
That  their  swift  beams — the  swiftest  things  that  be — 
Have  travell'd  centuries  on  their  flight  to  earth. 
Earth,  sun,  and  nearer  constellations  !  what 
Are  ye  amid  this  infinite  extent 
And  multitude  of  God's  most  infinite  works  ! 

And  these  are  suns !  vast,  central,  living  fires, 
Lords  of  dependant  systems,  kings  of  worlds 
That  wait  as  satellites  upon  their  power, 
And  nourish  in  their  smile.     Awake,  my  soul, 
And  meditate  the  wonder !     Countless  suns 
Blaze   round   thee,  leading  forth    their   countless 

worlds ! 

Worlds  in  whose  bosoms  living  things  rejoice, 
And  drink  the  bliss  of  being  from  the  fount 
Of  all-pervading  Love.     What  mind  can  know, 
What  tongue  can  utter,  all  their  multitudes  ! 
Thus  numberless  in  numberless  abodes  ! 
Known  but  to  thee,  bless'd  Father !    Thine  they  are, 
Thy  children,  and  thy  care  ;  and  none  o'erlook'd 
Of  thee  !     No,  not  the  humblest  soul  that  dwells 
Upon  the  humblest  globe,  which  wheels  its  course 
Amid  the  giant  glories  of  the  sky, 
Like  the  mean  mote  that  dances  in  the  beam 
Among  the  mirror'd  lamps,  which  fling 
Their  wasteful  splendour  from  the  palace  wall, 
None,  none  escape  the  kindness  of  thy  care  ; 
All  compass'd  underneath  thy  spacious  wing, 
Each  fed  and  guided  by  thy  powerful  hand. 

Tell  me,  ye  splendid  orbs  !  as  from  your  throne 
Ye  mark  the  rolling  provinces  that  own 
Your  sway,  what  beings  fill  those  bright  abodes  1 
How  form'd,  how  gifted  ?  what  their  powers,  their 

state. 

Their  happiness,  their  wisdom  ?     Do  they  bear 
The  stamp  of  human  nature  "?     Or  has  God 
Peopled  those  purer  realms  with  lovelier  forms 
And  more  celestial  minds  ?     Does  Innocence 
Still  wear  her  native  and  untainted  bloom  ? 
Or  has  Sin  breathed  his  deadly  blight  abroad, 


262  HENRY   WARE,    JR. 

And  sow'd  corruption  in  those  fairy  bowers  ? 

Has  War  trod  o'er  them  with  his  foot  of  fire  ? 

And  Slavery  forged  his  chains ;  and  Wrath,  and  Hate, 

And  sordid  Selfishness,  and  cruel  Lust, 

Leagued  their  base  bands  to  tread  out  light  and  truth, 

And  scatter'd  wo  where  Heaven  had  planted  joy  ] 

Or  are  they  yet  all  paradise,  unfallen 

And  uncorrupt ;  existence  one  long  joy, 

Without  disease  upon  the  frame,  or  sin 

Upon  the  heart,  or  weariness  of  life  ; 

Hope  never  quench'd,  and  age  unknown, 

And  death  unfear'd  ;  while  fresh  and  fadeless  youth 

Glows  in  the  light  from  God's  near  throne  of  love  ? 

Open  your  lips,  ye  wonderful  and  fair ! 
Speak,  speak  !  the  mysteries  of  those  living  worlds 
Unfold !     No  language  ?     Everlasting  light 
And  everlasting  silence  1    Yet  the  eye 
May  read  and  understand.     The  hand  of  God 
Has  written  legibly  what  man  may  know, 
THE  GLORY  OF  THE  MAKER.     There  it  shines, 
Ineffable,  unchangeable  ;  and  man, 
Bound  to  the  surface  of  this  pigmy  globe, 
May  know  and  ask  no  more.     In  other  days, 
When  death  shall  give  the  encumber'd  spirit  wings, 
Its  range  shall  be  extended ;  it  shall  roam, 
Perchance,  among  those  vast  mysterious  spheres, 
Shall  pass  from  orb  to  orb,  and  dwell  in  each, 
Familiar  with  its  children  ;  learn  their  laws, 
And  share  their  state,  and  study  and  adore 
The  infinite  varieties  of  bliss 
And  beauty,  by  the  hand  of  Power  divine 
Lavish'd  on  all  its  works.     Eternity 
Shall  thus  roll  on  with  ever  fresh  delight ; 
No  pause  of  pleasure  or  improvement ;  world 
On  world  still  opening  to  the  instructed  mind 
An  unexhausted  universe,  and  time 
But  adding  to  its  glories.     While  the  soul, 
Advancing  ever  to  the  Source  of  light 
And  all  perfection,  lives,  adores,  and  reigns 
In  cloudless  knowledge,  purity,  and  bliss. 


HENRY   WARB,    JR.  263 


THE    VISION    OP    LIBERTY. 

THE  evening  heavens  were  calm  and  bright; 

No  dimness  rested  on  the  glittering  light,  [high ; 
That  sparkled  from  that  wilderness  of  worlds  on 

Those  distant  suns  burn'd  on  in  quiet  ray ; 

The  placid  planets  held  their  modest  way  ;  [sky. 
And  silence  reign'd  profound  o'er  earth,  and  sea,  and 

Oh  what  an  hour  for  lofty  thought ! 

My  spirit  burn'd  within ;  I  caught 
A  holy  inspiration  from  the  hour. 

Around  me  man  and  nature  slept ; 

Alone  my  solemn  watch  I  kept, 
Till  morning  dawn'd,  and  sleep  resumed  her  power. 

A  vision  pass'd  upon  my  soul. 
I  still  was  gazing  up  to  heaven, 
As  in  the  early  hours  of  even  ; 

I  still  beheld  the  planets  roll, 

And  all  those  countless  sons  of  light        [less  night. 
Flame  from  the  broad  blue  arch,  and  guide  the  moon- 
When  lo,  upon  the  plain, 

Just  where  it  skirts  the  swelling  main, 

A  massive  castle,  far  and  high, 

In  towering  grandeur  broke  upon  my  eye. 
Proud  in  its  strength  and  years,  the  pond'rous  pile 

Flung  up  its  time-defying  towers  ; 
Its  lofty  gates  seem'd  scornfully  to  smile 

At  vain  assault  of  human  powers, 
And  threats  and  arms  deride. 
Its  gorgeous  carvings  of  heraldic  pride 

In  giant  masses  graced  the  walls  above,- 
And  dungeons  yawn'd  below. 

Yet  ivy  there  and  moss  their  garlands  wove, 
Grave,  silent  chroniclers  of  time's  protracted  flow. 

Bursting  on  my  steadfast  gaze, 
See,  within,  a  sudden  blaze ! 


264  HENRY    WARE,    JR. 

So  small  at  first,  the  zephyr's  slightest  swell, 
That  scarcely  stirs  the  pine-tree  top, 
Nor  makes  the  wither'd  leaf  to  drop, 

The  feeble  fluttering  of  that  flame  would  quell. 

But  soon  it  spread — 

Waving,  rushing,  fierce,  and  red — 

From  wall  to  wall,  from  tower  to  tower, 

Raging  with  resistless  power ; 
Till  every  fervent  pillar  glow'd, 

And  every  stone  seem'd  burning  coal, 
Instinct  with  living  heat,  that  flow'd 

Like  streaming  radiance  from  the  kindled  pole. 

Beautiful,  fearful,  grand, 

Silent  as  death,  I  saw  the  fabric  stand. 

At  length  a  crackling  sound  began ; 

From  side  to  side,  throughout  the  pile  it  ran ; 

And  louder  yet  and  louder  grew, 

Till  now  in  rattling  thunder-peals  it  grew ; 

Huge  shiver'd  fragments  from  the  pillars  broke, 

Like  fiery  sparkles  from  the  anvil's  stroke. 

The  shatter'd  walls  were  rent  and  riven, 

And  piecemeal  driven 

Like  blazing  comets  through  the  troubled  sky. 

'Tis  done  ;  what  centuries  had  rear'd, 

In  quick  explosion  disappear'd, 
Nor  even  its  ruins  met  my  wondering  eye. 

But  in  their  place — 

Bright  with  more  than  human  grace, 

Robed  in  more  than  mortal  seeming, 
Radiant  glory  in  her  face,  [ing- 

And  eyes  with  heaven's  own  brightness  bean 
Rose  a  fair  majestic  form, 
As  the  mild  rainbow  from  the  storm. 
I  mark'd  her  smile,  I  knew  her  eye ; 

And  when,  with  gesture  of  command, 

She  waved  aloft  the  cap-crown'd  wand, 
My  slumbers  fled  mid  shouts  of  "  Liberty !" 


W.    E.    GALLAUDET.  265 

Read  ye  the  dream  ?  and  know  ye  not 
How  truly  it  unlock'd  the  world  of  fate  ? 

Went  not  the  flame  from  this  illustrious  spot, 
And  spreads  it  not,  and  burns  in  every  state  ? 

And  when  their  old  and  cumbrous  walls, 
FilPd  with  this  spirit,  glow  intense, 
Vainly  they  rear'd  their  impotent  defence  : 

The  fabric  falls ! 

That  fervent  energy  must  spread, 
Till  despotism's  towers  be  overthrown  ; 

And  in  their  stead, 
Liberty  stands  alone ! 

Hasten  the  day,  just  Heaven ! 

Accomplish  thy  design ; 
And  let  the  blessings  thou  hast  freely  given, 

Freely  on  all  men  shine  ; 
Till  equal  rights  be  equally  enjoy'd, 
And  human  power  for  human  good  employ'd ; 
Till  law,  not,  the  sovereign  rule  sustain, 
And  peace  and  virtue  undisputed  reign. 


W.  E.  GALLAUDET. 

LINES   TO   THE    WESTERN    MUMMY. 

OH,  stranger,  whose  repose  profound 
These  latter  ages  dare  to  break, 

And  call  thee  from  beneath  the  ground 
Ere  nature  did  thy  slumber  shake ! 

What  wonders  of  the  secret  earth 
Thy  lip,  too  silent,  might  reveal ! 

Of  tribes  round  whose  mysterious  birth 
A  thousand  envious  ages  wheel ! 
Z 


266  W.    E.    GALLATJDET. 

Thy  race,  by  savage  war  o'errun, 

Sunk  down,  their  very  name  forgot ; 
But,  ere  those  fearful  times  begun, 
Perhaps,  in  this  sequester'd  spot, 

By  Friendship's  hand  thine  eyelids  closed, 
By  Friendship's  hand  the  turf  was  laid  ; 

And  Friendship  here,  perhaps,  reposed, 
With  moonlight  vigils  in  the  shade. 

The  stars  have  run  their  nightly  round, 
The  sun  look'd  out  and  pass'd  his  way, 

And  many  a  season  o'er  the  ground 
Has  trod  where  thou  so  softly  lay. 

And  wilt  thou  not  one  moment  raise 
Thy  weary  head,  a  while  to  see 

The  later  sports  of  earthly  days, 
How  like  what  once  enchanted  thee  ? 

Thy  name,  thy  date,  thy  life  declare ; 

Perhaps  a  queen,  whose  feathery  band 
A  thousand  maids  have  sigh'd  to  wear, 

The  brightest  in  thy  beauteous  land ; 

Perhaps  a  Helen,  from  whose  eye 
Love  kindled  up  the  flames  of  war : 

Ah,  me !  do  thus  thy  graces  lie 
A  faded  phantom,  and  no  more  ? 

Oh,  not  like  thee  would  I  remain, 
But  o'er  the  earth  my  ashes  strew, 

And  in  some  rising  bud  regain 
The  freshness  that  my  childhood  knew. 

But  has  thy  soul,  oh  maid !  so  long 
Around  this  mournful  relic  dwelt  1 

Or  burst  away,  with  pinion  strong, 
And  at  the  foot  of  Mercy  knelt  1 


i.  M'LELLAN,  JR.  267 

Or  has  it,  in  some  distant  clime, 
With  curious  eye,  unsated,  stray'd, 

And,  down  the  winding  stream  of  time, 
On  every  changeful  current  play'df 

Or,  lock'd  in  everlasting  sleep, 

Must  we  thy  heart  extinct  deplore, 

Thy  fancy  lost  in  darkness  weep, 
And  sigh  for  her  who  feels  no  more  * 

Or,  exiled  to  some  humbler  sphere, 
In  yonder  wood-dove  dost  thou  dwell, 

And,  murmuring  in  the  stranger's  ear. 
Thy  tender  melancholy  tell  ] 

Whoe'er  thou  be,  thy  sad  remains 
Shall  from  the  Muse  a  tear  demand, 

Who,  wandering  on  these  distant  plains, 
Looks  fondly  to  a  distant  land. 


I.  M'LELLAN,  JR. 

THE    NOTES    OF    THE    BIRDS. 

WELL  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gayly  in  Spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  the  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  Summer-time, 
And  in  red  Autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art  pain'd  with  the  world's  noisy  stir, 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  and  weigh'd  down 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life ; 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far-distant  land 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike, 


I.    M*LELLAN,    JR. 

Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 
The  thrilling  music  of  the  forest  birds. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir !    The  unquiet  finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wren 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  times, 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps,  half  hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dogwood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  blue  jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree, 
And,  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  Spring,  the  robin  comes, 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  wither'd  nest.     But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  red  stemm'd  hazel's  slender  twig, 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  Autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest  field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves,  then  peals  abroad 
The  blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watchplace  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  cornfield  edge. 

Lone  whipporwill, 

There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Ofttimes,  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still : 
And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 
And  to  the  herds  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 


i.  M'LELLAN,  JR.  269 

To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 

No  eye,  save  thine,  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 

I  hear  thee  oft  at  midnight,  when  the  thrush 

And  the  green,  roving  linnet  are  at  rest, 

And  the  blithe,  twittering  swallows  have  long  ceased 

Their  noisy  note,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current 

mines 

The  forest's  blacken'd  roots,  and  whose  green  marge 
Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot, 
The  lonely  heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath  silence  of  the  wilderness  : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool, 
Or  brooding  gloomily  on  the  time-stain'd  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep  and  heavy  boom, 
Gray  watcher  of  the  waters !     Thou  art  king 
Of  the  blue  lake  ;  and  all  the  wing'd  kind 
Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 
How  bright  thy  savage  eye !     Thou  lookest  down, 
And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide  ; 
And,  poising  thy  gray  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 
Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 
Ofttimes  I  see  thee,  through  the  curling  mist, 
Dart  like  a  spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 
Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 
Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now,  wouldst  thou,  oh  man  !  delight  the  ear 
"With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  1     Then  pass  forth, 
And  find  them  mid  those  many-colour'd  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  Beauty's  ruby  lip. 
Z2 


270  MICAH   P.    FLINT. 


MICAH  P.  FLINT. 

LINES   ON    PASSING    THE    GRAVE    OF    MY    SISTER. 

ON  yonder  shore,  on  yonder  shore, 
Now  verdant  with  the  depth  of  shade, 

Beneath  the  white-arm'd  sycamore, 
There  is  a  little  infant  laid. 

Forgive  this  tear.     A  brother  weeps. 

Tis  there  the  faded  floweret  sleeps. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone, 
And  summer's  forests  o'er  her  wave  ; 

And  sighing  winds  at  autumn  moan 
Around  the  little  stranger's  grave, 

As  though  they  murmur'd  at  the  fate 

Of  one  so  lone  and  desolate. 

In  sounds  that  seem  like  Sorrow's  own, 
Their  funeral  dirges  faintly  creep  ; 

Then,  deep'ning  to  an  organ  tone, 
In  all  their  solemn  cadence  sweep,. 

And  pour,  unheard,  along  the  wild, 

Their  desert  anthem  o'er  a  child. 

She  came  and  pass'd.     Can  I  forget 

How  we,  whose  hearts  had  hail'd  her  birth, 

Ere  three  autumnal  suns  had  set, 
Consign'd  her  to  her  mother  Earth ! 

Joys  and  their  memories  pass  away ; 

But  griefs  are  deeper  traced  than  they. 

We  laid  her  in  her  narrow  cell, 
We  heap'd  the  soft  mould  on  her  breast, 

And  parting  tears,  like  raindrops,  fell 
Upon  her  lonely  place  of  rest. 

May  angels  guard  it ;  may  they  bless 

Her  slumbers  in  the  wilderness. 


GEORGE    H.    CALVERT.  271 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone  ; 

For,  all  unheard,  on  yonder  shore, 
The  sweeping  flood,  with  torrent  moan, 

At  evening  lifts  its  solemn  roar, 
As,  in  one  broad,  eternal  tide, 
Its  rolling  waters  onward  glide. 

There  is  no  marble  monument, 
There  is  no  stone,  with  graven  lie, 

To  tell  of  love  and  virtue  blent 
In  one  almost  too  good  to  die. 

We  needed  no  such  useless  trace 

To  point  us  to  her  resting-place. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone ; 

But,  mid  the  tears  of  April  showers, 
The  genius  of  the  wild  hath  strown 

His  germes  of  fruits,  his  fairest  flowers, 
And  cast  his  robe  of  vernal  bloom, 
In  guardian  fondness,  o'er  her  tomb. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone  ; 

But  yearly  is  her  grave-turf  dress'd, 
And  still  the  summer-vines  are  thrown, 

In  annual  wreaths,  across  her  breast. 
And  still  the  sighing  autumn  grieves, 
And  strews  the  hallow'd  spot  with  leaves. 


GEORGE  H.  CALVERT. 

WASHINGTON.   FROM  ARNOLD  AND  ANDRE,  A  DRAMATIC 
FRAGMENT. 

OLD   OFFICER.  My  general,  I  know  this  people 
And  all  the  virtues  which  Old  England  claims,  [well ; 
As  the  foundations  of  her  happiness 
And  greatness — such  as  reverence  of  law 
And  custom,  prudence,  female  chastity, 
And  with  them,  independence,  fortitude. 


272  GEORGE    H.    CALVERT. 

Courage,  and  sturdiness  of  purpose — have 

Been  here  transplanted  from  their  native  soil, 

And  flourish  undegenerate.     From  these — 

Sources  exhaustible  but  with  the  life 

That  feeds  them — their  severe  intents  take  birth, 

And  draw  the  lusty  sustenance  to  mould 

The  limbs  and  body  of  their  own  fulfilment, 

So  that  performance  lag  not  after  purpose. 

They  are  our  countrymen.     They  are,  as  well 

In  manly  resolution  as  in  blood, 

The  children  of  our  fathers.     Washington 

Doth  know  no  other  language  than  the  one 

We  speak :  and  never  did  an  English  tongue 

Give  voice  unto  a  larger,  wiser  mind. 

You'll  task  your  judgment  vainly  to  point  out, 

Through  all  this  desp'rate  conflict,  in  his  plans 

A  flaw,  or  fault  in  execution.     He 

In  spirit  is  unconquerable,  as 

In  genius  perfect.     Side  by  side  I  fought 

With  him  in  that  disastrous  enterprise 

Where  rash  young  Braddock  fell ;  and  there  I  mark'd 

The  vet'ran's  skill  contend  for  mastery 

With  youthful  courage  in  his  wondrous  deeds. 

Well  might  the  bloody  Indian  warrior  pause, 

Amid  his  massacre  confounded,  and 

His  baffled  rifle's  aim,  till  then  unerring, 

Turn  from  "  that  tall  young  man,"  and  deem  in  awe 

That  the  Great  Spirit  hover'd  over  him ; 

For  he,  of  all  our  mounted  officers, 

Alone  came  out  unscathed  from  that  dread  carnage, 

To  guard  our  shatter'd  army's  swift  retreat. 

For  years  did  his  majestic  form  hold  place 

Upon  my  mind,  stamp'd  in  that  perilous  hour, 

In  th'  image  of  a  strong-arm'd  friend,  until 

I  met  him  next  as  a  resistless  foe. 

'Twas  at  the  fight  near  Princeton.     In  quick  march, 

Victorious  o'er  his  van,  onward  we  press'd  ; 

When,  moving  with  firm  pace,  led  by  the  chief 

Himself,  the  central  force  encounter'd  us. 

One  moment  paused  th'  opposing  hosts,  and  then 


ALFRED    B.    STREET.  273 

The  rattling  volley  hid  the  death  it  bore  : 
Another,  and  the  sudden  cloud,  uproll'd, 
Display'd,  midway  between  the  adverse  lines, 
His  drawn  sword  gleaming  high,  the  chief,  as  though 
That  crash  of  deadly  music,  and  the  burst 
Of  sulphurous  vapour,  had  from  out  the  earth 
Summon'd  the  god  of  war.     Doubly  exposed, 
He  stood  unharm'd.     Like  eagles  tempest-borne 
Rush'd  to  his  side  his  men ;  and  had  our  souls 
And  arms  with  twofold  strength  been  braced,  we  yet 
Had  not  withstood  that  onset.     Thus  does  he 
Keep  ever  with  occasion  even  step ; 
Now  warily  before  our  eager  speed 
Retreating,  tempting  us  with  battle's  promise 
Only  to  toil  us  with  a  vain  pursuit ; 
Now  wheeling  rapidly  about  our  flanks, 
Startling  our  ears  with  sudden  peal  of  war, 
And  fronting  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight 
The  common  soldier's  death,  stirring  the  blood 
Of  faintest  hearts  to  deeds  of  bravery 
By  his  great  presence. 


ALFRED  B.  STREET. 

A  FOREST  WALK. 

"  Why  should  we  crave  a  hallowed  spot  ? 
An  altar  is  in  each  man's  cot, 
A  church  in  every  gfove  that  spreads 
Its  living  roof  above  our  heads." 

WORDSWORTH'S  "  God  in  Nature." 

A  LOVELY  sky,  a  cloudless  sun, 

A  wind  that  breathes  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
O'er  hill,  through  dale,  my  steps  have  won, 

To  the  cool  forest's  shadowy  bowers  ; 
One  of  the  paths  all  round  that  wind, 

Traced  by  the  browsing  herds,  I  choose, 
And  sights  and  sounds  of  human  kind, 

In  nature's  lone  recesses  lose ; 


274  ALFRED    B.    STREET. 

The  beech  displays  its  marbled  bark, 
The  spruce  its  green  tent  stretches  wide, 

While  scowls  the  hemlock,  grim  and  dark, 
The  maple's  scallop'd  dome  beside  : 

All  weave  on  high  a  verdant  roof, 

That  keeps  the  very  sun  aloof, 

Making  a  twilight  scft  and  green, 

Within  the  column'd,  vaulted  scene. 

Sweet  forest,  odours  have  their  birth 

From  the  clothed  boughs  and  teeming  earth ; 

Where  pinecones  dropp'd,  leaves  piled  arid  dead, 

Long  tufts  of  grass,  and  stars  of  fern, 

With  many  a  wild  flower's  fairy  urn, 
A  thick,  elastic  carpet  spread ; 
Here,  with  its  mossy  pall,  the  trunk, 
Resolving  into  soil,  is  sunk ; 
There,  wrench'd  but  lately  from  its  throne, 

By  some  fierce  whirlwind  circling  past, 
Its  huge  roots  mass'd  with  earth  and  stone, 

One  of  the  woodland  kings  is  cast. 

Above,  the  forest  tops  are  bright 
With  the  broad  blaze  of  sunny  light : 
But  now,  a  fitful  airgust  parts 

The  screening  branches,  and  a  glow 
Of  dazzling,  startling  radiance  darts 

Down  the  dark  stems,  and  breaks  below  ; 
The  mingled  shadows  off  are  roll'd, 
The  sylvan  floor  is  bathed  in  gold : 
Low  sprouts  and  herbs,  before  unseen, 
Display  their  shades  of  brown  and  green  ; 
Tints  brighten  o'er  the  velvet  moss, 
Gleams  twinkle  on  the  laurel's  gloss  ; 
The  robin,  brooding  in  her  nest, 
Chirps  as  the  quick  ray  strikes  her  breast, 
And  as  my  shadow  prints  the  ground, 
I  see  the  rabbit  upward  bound, 
With  pointed  ears  an  instant  look, 
Then  scamper  to  the  darkest  nook, 


ALFRED    B.    STREET.  275 

Where,  with  crouch'd  limb  and  staring  eye, 
He  watches  while  I  saunter  by. 

A  narrow  vista,  carpeted 

With  rich  green  grass,  invites  my  tread ; 

Here  showers  the  light  in  golden  dots, 

There  sleeps  the  shade  in  ebon  spots ; 

So  blended,  that  the  very  air 

Seems  network  as  I  enter  there. 

The  partridge,  whose  deep-rolling  drum 

Afar  has  sounded  on  my  ear, 
Ceasing  his  beatings  as  I  come, 

Whirrs  to  the  sheltering  branches  near ; 
The  little  milksnake  glides  away, 
The  brindled  marmot  dives  from  day ; 
And  now,  between  the  boughs,  a  space 
Of  the  blue  laughing  sky  I  trace ; 
On  each  side  shrinks  the  bowery  shade  ; 
Before  me  spreads  an  emerald  glade ; 
The  sunshine  steeps  its  grass  and  moss, 
That  couch  my  footsteps  as  I  cross  ; 
Merrily  hums  the  tawny  bee, 
The  glittering  humming-bird  I  see  ; 
Floats  the  bright  butterfly  along, 
The  insect  choir  is  loud  in  song : 
A  spot  of  light  and  life,  it  seems 
A  fairy  haunt  for  fancy  dreams. 

Here  stretch'd,  the  pleasant  turf  I  press, 
In  luxury  of  idleness  ; 
Sun-streaks,  and  glancing  wings,  and  sky, 
Spotted  with  cloud-shapes,  charm  my  eye  ; 
While  murmuring  grass,  and  waving  trees, 
Their  leaf-harps  sounding  to  the  breeze, 
And  water-tones  that  tinkle  near, 
Blend  their  sweet  music  to  my  ear ; 
And  by  the  changing  shades  alone, 
The  passage  of  the  hours  are  known. 


276  ALFRED   B.    STREET. 


AN   AMERICAN   FOREST   SPRING. 

Now  fluttering  breeze,  now  stormy  blast, 

Mild  rain,  then  blustering  snow : 
Winter's  stern,  fettering  cold  is  pass'd, 

But,  sweet  Spring!  where  art  thou! 
The  white  cloud  floats  mid  smiling  blue, 
The  broad  bright  sunshine's  golden  hue 

Bathes  the  still  frozen  earth : 
'Tis  changed!  above,  black  vapours  roll: 
We  turn  from  our  expected  stroll, 

And  seek  the  blazing  hearth. 

Hark !  that  sweet  carol !  with  delight 

We  leave  the  stifling  room ! 
The  little  bluebird  greets  our  sight, 

Spring,  glorious  Spring  has  come ! 
The  south  wind's  balm  is  in  the  air, 
The  melting  snow-wreathes  everywhere 

Are  leaping  off  in  showers ; 
And  Nature,  in  her  brightening  looks, 
Tells  that  her  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  brooks, 

And  birds  will  soon  be  oursr. 

A  few  soft,  sunny  days  have  shone, 

The  air  has  lost  its  chill, 
A  bright  green  tinge  succeeds  the  brown 

Upon  the  southern  hill. 
Off  to  the  woods !  a  pleasant  scene ! 
Here  sprouts  the  fresh  young  wintergreen, 

There  swells  a  mossy  mound ; 
Though  in  the  hollows  drifts  are  piled, 
The  wandering  wind  is  sweet  and  mild, 

And  buds  are  bursting  round. 

Where  its  long  rings  uncurls  the  fern, 

The  violet,  nestling  low, 
Casts  back  the  white  lid  of  its  urn, 

Its  purple  streaks  to  show : 


ALFRED   B.    STREET.  277 

Beautiful  blossom !  first  to  rise 

And  smile  beneath  Spring's  wakening  skies. 

The  courier  of  the  band 
Of  coming  flowers,  what  feelings  sweet 
Gush,  as  the  silvery  gem  we  meet 

Upon  its  slender  wand. 

A  sudden  roar — a  shade  is  cast — 

We  look  up  with  a  start, 
And,  sounding  like  a  transient  blast, 

O'erhead  the  pigeons  dart ; 
Scarce  their  blue  glancing  shapes  the  eye 
Can  trace,  ere,  dotted  on  the  sky, 

They  wheel  in  distant  flight. 
A  chirp !  and  swift  the  squirrel  scours 
Along  the  prostrate  trunk,  and  cowers 

Within  its  clefts  from  sight. 

Amid  the  creeping  vine,  which  spreads 

Its  thick  and  verdant  wreath, 
The  scaurberry's  downy  spangle  sheds 

Its  rich,  delicious  breath. 
The  bee-swarm  murmurs  by,  and  now 
It  clusters  black  on  yonder  bough : 

The  robin's  mottled  breast 
Glances  that  sunny  spot  across, 
As  round  it  seeks  the  twig  and  moss 

To  frame  its  summer  nest. 

Warmer  is  each  successive  sky, 

More  soft  the  breezes  pass, 
The  maple's  gems  of  crimson  lie 

Upon  the  thick  green  grass. 
The  dogwood  sheds  its  clusters  white, 
The  birch  has  dropp'd  its  tassels  slight, 

Cowslips  are  round  the  rill ; 
The  thresher  whistles  in  the  glen, 
Flutters  around  the  warbling  wren, 

And  swamps  have  voices  shrill. 
A  A 


278  J.  K.    MITCHELL. 

A  simultaneous  burst  of  leaves 

Has  clothed  the  forest  now, 
A  single  day's  bright  sunshine  weaves 

This  vivid,  gorgeous  show. 
Masses  of  shade  are  cast  beneath, 
The  flowers  are  spread  in  varied  wreath, 

Night  brings  its  soft,  sweet  moon  ; 
Morn  wakes  in  mist,  and  twilight  gray 
Weeps  its  bright  dew,  and  smiling  May 

Melts  into  blooming  June ! 


J.  K.  MITCHELL. 

SONG    OF    THE    PRAFRIE. 

OH  !  fly  to  the  prairie,  sweet  maiden,  with  me, 
As  green,  and  as  wide,  and  as  wild  as  the  sea  ! 
Its  bosom  of  velvet  the  summer  winds  ride, 
And  rank  grass  is  waving  in  billowy  pride. 

The  city's  a  prison  too  narrow  for  thee — 

Then  away  to  the  prairies  so  boundless  and  free ! 

Where  the  sight  is  not  check'd  till  the  prairie  and 

skies, 
In  harmony  blending,  commingle  their  dyes. 

The  fawns  in  the  meadow-fields  fearlessly  play — 
Away  to  the  chase,  lovely  maiden,  away ! 
Bound,  bound  to  thy  courser,  the  bison  is  near ! 
And  list  to  the  tramp  of  the  light-footed  deer. 

Let  England  exult  in  her  dogs  and  her  chase — 
Oh !  what's  a  king's  park  to  this  limitless  space  ? 
No  fences  to  leap  and  no  thickets  to  turn, 
No  owners  to  injure,  no  furrows  to  spurn. 

But,  softly  as  thine  on  the  carpeted  hall, 
Is  heard  the  light  foot  of  the  courser  to  fall ; 
And  close  matted  grass  no  impression  receives, 
As  ironless  hoofs  bound  aloft  from  the  leaves. 


J.   K.  MITCHELL.  279 

Oh,  fly  to  the  prairie  !  the  eagle  is  there  : 
He  gracefully  wheels  in  the  cloud-speckled  air ; 
And  timidly  hiding  her  delicate  young, 
The  prairie-hen  hushes  her  beautiful  song. 

Oh,  fly  to  the  prairie,  sweet  maiden,  with  me ! 
The  vine  and  the  prairie-rose  blossom  for  thee  ; 
And,  hailing  the  moon  in  the  prairie-propp'd  sky, 
The  mocking-bird  echoes  the  katydid's  cry. 

Let  Mexicans  boast  of  their  herds  and  their  steeds, 
The  free  prairie-hunter  no  shepherd-boy  needs  ; 
The  bison,  like  clouds,  overshadow  the  place, 
And  the  wild  spotted  coursers  invite  to  the  chase. 

The  citizen  picks  at  his  turtle  and  fowls, 
And  stomachless  over  his  fricassee  growls  : 
We  track  the  wild  turkey ;  the  rifle  supplies 
The  food  for  the  board  and  the  stomach  to  prize. 

The  farmer  may  boast  of  his  grass  and  his  grain — 
He  sows  them  in  labour,  and  reaps  them  in  pain ; 
But  here  the  deep  soil  no  exertion  requires, 
Enrich'd  by  the  ashes,  and  clear'd  by  the  fires. 

Then  fly  to  the  prairie  in  wonder,  and  gaze, 
As  sweeps  o'er  the  grass  the  magnificent  blaze  ; 
The  world  cannot  boast  more  romantic  a  sight — 
A  continent  flaming,  and  oceans  of  light ! 

The  woodman  delights  in  his  trees  and  his  shade — 
But  see !  there's  no  sun  on  the  cheek  of  his  maid  ; 
His  flowers  are  faded,  his  blossoms  are  pale, 
And  mildew  is  riding  his  vapoury  gale. 

Then  fly  to  the  prairie !  no  bush  to  obscure, 
No  marsh  to  exhale,  and  no  ague  to  cure,     [breeze, 
Translucent    and   fresh  comes   the    grass-scented 
Unchill'd  by  the  mountain,  unbroken  by  trees. 

Sublime  from  the  north  he  descends  in  his  wrath, 
And  scatters  the  reeds  in  his  snow-cover'd  path ; 
Or,  loaded  with  incense,  steals  in  from  the  west, 
As  bees  from  the  prairie-rose  fly  to  their  nest. 


280  EDWARD    SANDFORD. 

Oh,  fly  to  the  prairie !  for  freedom  is  there ! 
Love  lights  not  that  home  with  the  torch  of  despair ! 
No  wretch  to  entreat,  and  no  lord  to  deny, 
No  gossips  to  slander,  no  neighbour  to  pry. 

But  struggling  not  there  the  heart's  impulse  to  hide, 
Love  leaps  like  the  fount  from  the  crystal-rock  side, 
And  strong  as  its  adamant,  pure  as  its  spring, 
Waves  wildly  in  sunbeams  his  rose-colour'd  wing. 


EDWARD  SANFORD. 
ADDRESS  TO  BLACK  HAWK. 

THERE'S  beauty  on  thy  brow,  old  chief!  the  high 

And  manly  beauty  of  the  Roman  mould, 
And  the  keen  flashing  of  thy  full  dark  eye 

Speaks  of  a  heart  that  years  have  not  made  cold ; 
Of  passions  scathed  not  by  the  blight  of  time  ; 

Ambition,  that  survives  the  battle  route. 
The  man  within  thee  scorns  to  play  the  mime 

To  gaping  crowds  that  compass  thee  about. 
Thou  walkest,  with  thy  warriors  by  thy  side, 
Wrapp'd  in  fierce  hate,  and  high,  unconquer'd  pride. 

Chief  of  a  hundred  warriors  !  dost  thou  yet — 

Vanquish'd  and  captive — dost  thou  deem  that  here, 
The  glowing  daystar  of  thy  glory  set — 

Dull  night  has  closed  upon  thy  bright  career  ? 
Old  forest  lion,  caught  and  caged  at  last, 

Dost  pant  to  roam  again  thy  native  wild  ? 
To  gloat  upon  the  lifeblood  flowing  fast 

Of  thy  crush'd  victims ;  and  to  slay  the  child, 
To  dabble  in  the  gore  of  wives  and  mothers, 
And  kill,  old  Turk!  thy  harmless,  pale-faced  broth 
ers? 


EDWARD    SANDFORD.  281 

For  it  was  cruel,  Black  Hawk,  thus  to  flutter 

The  dovecotes  of  the  peaceful  pioneers, 
To  let  thy  tribe  commit  such  fierce  and  utter 

Slaughter  among  the  folks  of  the  frontiers. 
Though  thine  be  old,  hereditary  hate, 

Begot  in  wrongs,  and  nursed  in  blood,  until 
It  had  become  a  madness,  'tis  too  late 

To  crush  the  hordes  who  have  the  power  and  will 
To  rob  thee  of  thy  hunting-grounds  and  fountains, 
And  drive  thee  backward  to  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

Spite  of  thy  looks  of  cold  indifference,        [wonder ; 

There's  much  thou'st  seen  that  must  excite  thy 
Wakes  not  upon  thy  quick  and  startled  sense 

The  cannon's  harsh  and  pealing  voice  of  thunder  T 
Our  big  canoes,  with  white  and  widespread  wings, 

That  sweep  the  waters  as  birds  sweep  the  sky ; 
Our  steamboats,  with  their  iron  lungs,  like  things 

Of  breathing  life,  that  dash  and  hurry  by  1 
Or,  if  thou  scorn'st  the  wonders  of  the  ocean, 
What  think'st  thou  of  our  railroad  locomotion  ? 

Thou'st  seen  our  museums,  beheld  the  dummies 

That  grin  in  darkness  in  their  coffin  cases ; 
What  think'st  thou  of  the  art  of  making  mummies, 

So  that  the  worms  shrink  from  their  dry  embraces  1 
Thou'st  seen  the  mimic  tyrants  of  the  stage 

Strutting,  in  paint  and  feathers,  for  an  hour ; 
Thou'st  heard  the  bellowing  of  their  tragic  rage, 

Seen  their  eyes  glisten,  and  their  dark  brows  lower. 
Anon,  thou'st  seen  them,  when  their  wrath  cool'd 
Pass  in  a  moment  from  a  king — to  clown.  [down, 

Thou  see'st  these  things  unmoved !   say'st  so,  old 

fellow  'L 

Then  tell  us,  have  the  white  man's  glowing  daugh 
ters 

Set  thy  cold  blood  in  motion  *\    Has't  been  mellow 
By  a  sly  cup  or  so  of  our  fire-waters ! 
A  A2 


282  EDWARD    SANDFORD. 

They  are  thy  people's  deadliest  poison.     They 
First  make  them  cowards,  and  then  white  men's 

And  sloth,  and  penury,  and  passion's  prey,    [slaves ; 
And  lives  of  misery,  and  early  graves. 

For,  by  their  power,  believe  me,  not  a  day  goes 

But  kills  some  Foxes,  Sacs,  and  Winnebagoes. 

Say,  does  thy  wandering  heart  stray  far  away, 

To  the  deep  bosom  of  thy  forest-home  1 
The  hillside,  where  thy  young  pappooses  play, 

And  ask,  amid  their  sports,  when  thou  wilt  come  ? 
Come  not  the  wailings  of  thy  gentle  squaws 

For  their  lost  warrior  loud  upon  thine  ear, 
Piercing  athwart  the  thunder  of  huzzas, 

That,  yell'd  at  every  corner,  meet  thee  here  1 
The  wife  who  made  that  shell-deck'd  wampum  belt, 
Thy  rugged  heart  must  think  of  her — and  melt. 

Chafes  not  thy  heart,  as  chafes  the  panting  breast 

Of  the  caged  bird  against  his  prison  bars, 
That  thou,  the  crown'd  warrior  of  the  West, 

The  victor  of  a  hundred  forest  wars, 
Shouldst  in  thy  age  become  a  raree  show, 

Led,  like  a  walking  bear,  about  the  town, 
A  new-caught  monster,  who  is  all  the  go, 

And  stared  at,  gratis,  by  the  gaping  clown1? 
Boils  not  thy  blood  while  thus  thou'rt  led  about, 
The  sport  and  mockery  of  the  rabble  rout  1 

Whence  came  thy  cold  philosophy  ?  whence  came, 

Thou  tearless,  stern,  and  uncomplaining  one, 
The  power  that  taught  thee  thus  to  veil  the  flame 

Of  thy  fierce  passions  ?    Thou  despisest  fun, 
And  thy  proud  spirit  scorns  the  white  men's  glee, 

Save  thy  fierce  sport,  when  at  the  funeral-pile 
Of  a  bound  warrior  in  his  agony, 

Who  meets  thy  horrid  laugh  with  dying  smile. 
Thy  face,  in  length,  reminds  one  of  a  Quaker's, 
Thy  dances,  too,  are  solemn  as  a  Shaker's. 


J.    B.    VAN    SCHAICK.  283 

Proud  scion  of  a  noble  stem !  thy  tree 

Is  blanch'd,  and  bare,  and  sear'd,  and  leafless  now. 
I'll  not  insult  its  fallen  majesty, 

Nor  drive,  with  careless  hand,  the  ruthless  plough 
Over  its  roots.     Torn  from  its  parent  mould, 

Rich,  warm,  and  deep,  its  fresh,  free,  balmy  air, 
No  second  verdure  quickens  in  our  cold, 

New,  barren  earth ;  no  life  sustains  it  there. 
But,  even  though  prostrate,  'tis  a  noble  thing, 
Though  crownless,  powerless,  "  every  inch  a  king." 

Give  us  thy  hand,  old  nobleman  of  nature, 

Proud  ruler  of  the  forest  aristocracy  ; 
The  best  of  blood  glows  in  thy  every  feature, 

And  thy  curl'd  lip  speaks  scorn  for  our  democracy. 
Thou  wear'st  thy  titles  on  that  godlike  brow  ; 

Let  him  who  doubts  them  meet  thine  eagle  eye, 
He'll  quail  beneath  its  glance,  and  disavow 

All  question  of  thy  noble  family ; 
For  thou  may'st  here  become,  with  strict  propriety, 
A  leader  in  our  city  good  society. 


J.  B.  VAN  SCHAICK. 

JOSHUA    COMMANDING    THE    SUN    AND    MOON    TO    STAND    STILL. 

THE  day  rose  clear  on  Gibeon.     Her  high  towers 
Flash'd  the  red  sunbeams  gloriously  back, 
And  the  wind-driven  banners,  and  the  steel 
Of  her  ten  thousand  spears  caught  dazzlingly 
The  sun,  and  on  the  fortresses  of  rock 
Play'd  a  soft  glow,  that  as  a  mockery  seem'd 
To  the  stern  men  who  girded  by  its  light. 
Beth-Horon  in  the  distance  slept,  and  breath 
Was  pleasant  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon, 
Where  armed  heels  trod  carelessly  the  sweet 
Wild  spices,  and  the  trees  of  gum  were  shook 


284  J.    B.    VAN    SCHAICK. 

By  the  rude  armour  on  their  branches  hung. 

Suddenly  in  the  camp  without  the  walls 

Rose  a  deep  murmur,  and  the  men  of  war 

Gather'd  around  their  kings,  and  "  Joshua ! 

From  Gilgal,  Joshua  !"  was  whisper'd  low, 

As  with  a  secret  fear,  and  then,  at  once, 

With  the  abruptness  of  a  dream,  he  stood 

Upon  the  rock  before  them.     Calmly  then 

Raised  he  his  helm,  and  with  his  temples  bare, 

And  hands  uplifted  to  the  sky,  he  pray'd : 

"  God  of  this  people,  hear !  and  let  the  sun 

Stand  upon  Gibeon,  still ;  and  let  the  moon 

Rest  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon  !"     He  ceased  : 

And  lo !  the  moon  sits  motionless,  and  earth 

Stands  on  her  axis  indolent.     The  sun 

Pours  the  immoving  column  of  his  rays 

In  undiminish'd  heat ;  the  hours  stand  still ; 

The  shade  hath  stopp'd  upon  the  dial's  face ; 

The  clouds  and  vapours  that  at  night  are  wont 

To  gather  and  enshroud  the  lower  earth, 

Are  struggling  with  strange  rays,  breaking  them  up, 

Scattering  the  misty  phalanx  like  a  wand, 

Glancing  o'er  mountain  tops,  and  shining  down 

In  broken  masses  on  the  astonish'd  plains. 

The  fever'd  cattle  group  in  wondering  herds  ; 

The  weary  birds  go  to  their  leafy  nests, 

But  find  no  darkness  there,  and  wander  forth 

On  feeble,  fluttering  wing  to  find  a  rest ; 

The  parch'd,  baked  earth,  undamp'd  by  usual  dews, 

Has  gaped  and  erack'd,  and  heat,  dry,  midday  heat, 

Comes  like  a  drunkard's  breath  upon  the  heart. 

On  with  thy  armies,  Joshua !     The  Lord 

God  of  Sabaoth  is  the  avenger  now  ! 

His  voice  is  in  the  thunder,  and  his  wrath 

Poureth  the  beams  of  the  retarded  sun, 

With  the  keen  strength  of  arrows,  on  their  sight. 

The  unwearied  sun  rides  in  the  zenith  sky ; 

Nature,  obedient  to  her  Maker's  voice, 

Stops  in  full  course  all  her  mysterious  wheels. 


CLEMENT    C.   MOORE.  285 

On !  till  avenging  swords  have  drunk  the  blood 
Of  all  Jehovah's  enemies,  and  till 
Thy  banners  in  returning  triumph  wave ; 
Then  yonder  orb  shall  set  mid  golden  clouds, 
And,  while  a  dewy  rain  falls  soft  on  earth, 
Show  in  the  heavens  the  glorious  bow  of  God, 
Shining,  the  rainbow-banner  of  the  skies. 


CLEMENT  C.  MOORE. 

A   VISIT    FROM    ST.    NICHOLAS. 

'TWAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through 

the  house 

Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse  ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there ; 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugarplums  danced  through  their 

heads ; 

And  mamma  in  her  'kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap ; 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter : 
Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 
Gave  the  lustre  of  midday  to  objects  below. 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 
But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  Jively  and  quick, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 
And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by 

name; 
"  Now,  Dasher !  now,  Dancer !  now,  Prancer !  now, 

Vixen ! 
On !  Comet,  on !   Cupid,  on !    Donder  and  Blixen — 


286  CLEMENT    C.    MOORE. 

To  the  top  of  the  porch !  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !" 
As  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 
So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys — and  St.  Nicholas  too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 
As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dress'd  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnish'd  with  ashes  and 

soot; 

A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  look'd  like  a  pedler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes,  how  they  twinkled!    his  dimples,  how 

merry ! 

His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry ; 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow. 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face,  and  a  little  round  belly, 
That  shook,  when  he  laugh'd,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump  ;  a  right  jolly  old  elf; 
And  I  laugh'd,  when  I  saw,  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 
A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 
And  fill'd  all  the  stockings  ;  then  turn'd  with  a  jerk, 
And,  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
A  nd  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle ; 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night !" 


LUCY    HOOPER.  287 


LUCY  HOOPER. 
THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS. 

Lines  written  after  seeing  among  a  collection  of  beautiful 
paintings— copies  from  the  old  masters,  recently  sent  to  New- 
York  from  Italy — one  representing  the  daughter  of  Herodias 
bearing  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist  in  a  charger,  and  wearing 
upon  her  countenance  an  expression,  not  of  triumph,  as  one 
might  suppose,  but  rather  of  soft  and  sorrowful  remorse,  as  she 
looks  upon  the  calm  and  beautiful  features  of  her  victim. 

MOTHER  !  I  bring  thy  gift ; 
Take  from  my  hand  the  dreaded  boon ;  I  pray, 
Take  it ;  the  still,  pale  sorrow  of  the  face 
Hath  left  upon  my  soul  its  living  trace, 

Never  to  pass  away, 

Since  from  these  lips  one  word  of  idle  breath 
Blanch'd  that  calm  face.    Oh,  mother  !  this  is  death ! 

What  is  it  that  I  see 

From  all  the  pure  and  settled  features  gleaming  ? 
Reproach !  reproach !  My  dreams  are  strange  and 
Mother !  hadst  thou  no  pity  on  thy  child  1  [wild. 

Lo !  a  celestial  smile  seems  softly  beaming 
On  thy  hush'd  lips ;  my  mother !  canst  thou  brook 
Longer  upon  thy  victim's  face  to  look  ? 

Alas !  at  yester  morn 
My  heart  was  light,  and  to  the  viol's  sound 
I  gayly  danced,  while  crown'd  with  summer  flowers, 
And  swiftly  by  me  sped  the  flying  hours ; 

And  all  was  joy  around, 

Not  death !     Oh,  mother !  could  I  say  thee  nay  ? 
Take  from  thy  daughter's  hand  thy  boon  away ! 

Take  it !  my  heart  is  sad ; 

And  the  pure  forehead  hath  an  icy  chill. 
I  dare  not  touch  it,  for  avenging  Heaven 
Hath  shuddering  visions  to  my  fancy  given ; 

And  the  pale  face  appals  me,  cold  and  still, 
With  the  closed  lips.     Oh,  tell  me  !  could  I  know 
That  the  pale  features  of  the  dead  were  so  1 


288          THOMAS  C.  UPHAM. 

I  may  not  turn  away 

From  the  charm'd  brow ;  and  I  have  heard  his 
Even  as  a  prophet  by  his  people  spoken ;  [name 
And  that  high  brow  in  death  bears  seal  and  token 

Of  one  whose  words  were  flame. 
Oh,  holy  teacher !  couldst  thou  rise  and  live, 
Would  not  those  hush'd  lips  whisper,  "  I  forgive  V1 

Away  with  lute  and  harp, 

With  the  glad  heart  for  ever,  and  the  dance ! 
Never  again  shall  tabret  sound  for  me  ! 
Oh,  fearful  mother !  I  have  brought  to  thee 

The  silent  dead,  with  his  rebuking  glance, 
And  the  crush'd  heart  of  one  to  whom  is  given 
Wild  dreams  of  judgment  and  offended  Heaven! 


THOMAS   C.    UPHAM. 

THE    MILLENNIAL   DAY. 

"  They  shall  not  hurt  nor  destroy  in  all  my  holy  mountain : 
for  the  earth  shall  be  full  of  the  knowledge  of  the  Lord,  as  the 
waters  that  cover  the  sea." — Isa.  xi.,  9. 

UPON  God's  holy  mountain  all  is  peace. 
Of  clanging  arms,  and  cries,  and  wail,  no  sound 
Goes  up  to  mingle  with  the  gentle  breeze, 
That  bears  its  perfumed  whispers  all  around. 
Beneath  its  trees,  that  spread  their  blooming  light, 
The  spotted  leopard  walks  ;  the  ox  is  there  ; 
The  yellow  lion  stands  in  conscious  might, 
Breathing  the  dewy  and  illumined  air. 
A  little  child  doth  take  him  by  the  mane, 
And  leads  him  forth,  and  plays  beneath  his  breast. 
Naught  breaks  the  quiet  of  that  bless'd  domain, 
Naught  mars  its  harmony  and  heavenly  rest : 
Picture  divine  and  emblem  of  that  day,       [sway. 
When  peace  on  earth  and  truth  shall  hold  unbroken 


ELIZA   FOLLEN.  289 


GOD   WORSHIPPED    IN    HIS    WORKS. 

"  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God :  and  the  firmament 
showeth  his  handiwork.  Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and 
night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge.  There  is  no  speech  nof 
language  where  their  voice  is  not  heard."— Ps.  xix.,  1,  2,  3. 

MEN  use  a  different  speech  in  different  climes, 
But  Nature  hath  one  voice,  and  only  one. 
Her  wandering  moon,  her  stars,  her  golden  sun, 
Her  woods  and  waters,  in  all  lands  and  times, 
In  one  deep  song  proclaim  the  wondrous  story. 
They  tell  it  to  each  other  in  the  sky. 
Upon  the  winds  they  send  it  sounding  high, 
Jehovah's  wisdom,  goodness,  power,  and  glory, 
I  hear  it  come  from  mountain,  cliff,  and  tree, 
Ten  thousand  voices  in  one  voice  united ; 
On  every  side  the  song  encircles  me. 
The  whole  round  world  reveres  and  is  delighted. 
Ah !  why,  when  heaven  and  earth  lift  up  their  voice, 
Ah !  why  should  man  alone  nor  worship  nor  rejoice  ? 


ELIZA  FOLLEN. 


HAIL,  boundless  Ocean !  mighty  rolling  deep ! 

Thou  ever  restless,  still  rejoicing  sea ! 
Now  slowly  heaving  in  thine  awful  sleep, 

Now  wildly  roaring  in  glad  revelry. 

The  stars  look  glorious  in  their  silent  place  j 
The  fixed  hills  in  tranquil  grandeur  stand  j 

The  moon  renews  her  gentle,  smiling  face ; 
The  sun  proclaims  his  Maker's  bounteous 

"  In  solemn  silence  all ;"  while  thy  glad  voice 
Went  forth  at  first  in  its  eternal  roar, 

And  billow  after  billow  cries,  Rejoice ! 
In  ceaseless  murmurs  on  the  sounding  shore. 
BB 


290  W.   J;    SNELLING. 

I  love  to  stand  upon  the  giant  rock 

That  thrusts  his  scowling  front  against  thy  wave, 
And  feel  the  trembling  from  the  mighty  shock, 

And  hear  it  roaring  through  each  hollow  cave  j. 

Then  mark  the  billows  gathering  up  their  force, 
Tossing  their  foam  back  like  a  lion's  mane  ; 

And,  rushing  on  in  their  exulting  course, 
In  idle  murmurs  swift  recoil  again. 

And,  while  the  baffled  waters  seem  to  sleep, 
Far  off  they  gather  mightier  than  before  ; 

Onward  they  move,  with  slow,  majestic  sweep, 
And  break  in  thunder  round  the  rocky  shore. 

There  is  a  power  within  me  that  awakes 
Mid  this  wild  conflict  of  the  stormy  sea ; 

And  moves,  and  swells,  and  its  stern  thraldom  breaks, 
And  heaves  and  pants  for  immortality. 

This  wind  must  die  away  ere  long,  and  thou, 
Old  Ocean,  must  recall  thy  truant  waves ; 

Dress  thee  with  smiles,  and  smooth  thy  furrow'd 
And  calmly  rest  thee  in  thy  silent  caves  ;     [brow, 

While,  restless,  by  no  earthly  shores  confined, 
The  sea  of  Thought  nor  ebb  nor  limit  knows, 

Fed  from  the  fountains  of  Creative  Mind,       [flows. 
Through  realms,  through  worlds  unknown  for  ever 


W.  J.   SNELLING. 

THE    BIRTff  OP   THUNDER. — A    DAHCOTAH    LEGEND. 

Twenty-eight  miles  from  the  Big  Stone  Lake,  near  the  sour 
ces  of  the  St.  Peter's  River,  is  a  cluster  of  small  lakes  or  ponds, 
lying  much  below  the  level  of  the  surrounding  prairie,  and  or 
namented  with  an  oak  wood.  The  Dahcotahs  call  this  place 
THE  NEST  OF  THUNDER,  and  say  that  here  Thunder  was  born. 
As  soon  as  the  infant  spirit  could  go  alone,  he  set  out  to  see  the 
world,  and,  at  the  first  ste[>,  placed  hi*  foot  upon  a  hill  twenty- 


W.    J.    SNELLING.  291 

five  miles  distant ;  a  rock  on  the  top  of  which  actually  seems  to 
bear  the  print  of  a  gigantic  human  foot.  The  Indians  call  the 
hill  THUNDER'S  TRACKS.  The  Nest  of  Thunder  is,  to  this  day, 
visited  by  the  being  whose  birth  it  witnessed.  He  comes  clad 
in  a  mantle  of  storms,  and  lightnings  play  round  his  head. 

LOOK,  white  man,  well  on  all  around, 

These  hoary  oaks,  those  boundless  plains  ; 
Tread  lightly  ;  this  is  holy  ground  : 

Here  Thunder,  awful  spirit !  reigns. 
Look  on  those  waters  far  below, 

So  deep  beneath  the  prairie  sleeping, 
The  summer  sun's  meridian  glow 

Scarce  warms  the  sands  their  waves  are  heaping; 
And  scarce  the  bitter  blast  can  blow 

In  winter  on  their  icy  cover  ; 
The  Wind  Sprite  may  not  stoop  so  low, 

But  bows  his  head  and  passes  over. 
Perch'd  on  the  top  of  yonder  pine, 

The  heron's  billow-searching  eye 

Can  scarce  his  finny  prey  descry, 
Glad  leaping  where  their  colours  shine. 
Those  lakes,  whose  shores  but  now  we  trod,    « 

Scars  deeply  on  Earth's  bosom  dinted, 
Are  the  strong  impress  of  a  god, 

By  Thunder's  giant  foot  imprinted. 
Nay,  stranger,  as  I  live  'tis  truth  ! 

The  lips  of  those  who  never  lied 
Repeat  it  daily  to  our  youth. 

Famed  heroes,  erst  my  nation's  pride, 
Beheld  the  wonder  ;  and  our  sages 
Gave  down  the  tale  to  after  ages. 
Dost  not  believe  ]  though  blooming  fair 

The  flowerets  court  the  breezes  coy, 
Though  now  the  sweet-grass  scents  the  air, 
And  sunny  nature  basks  in  joy, 

It  is  not  ever  so. 

Come  when  the  lightning  flashes, 
Come  when  the  forest  crashes, 

When  shrieks  of  pain  and  wo, 


292  W.    J.    SNELLING. 

Break  on  thine  ear-drum  thick  and  fast, 
From  ghosts  that  shiver  in  the  blast ; 
Then  shalt  thou  know,  and  bend  the  knee 
Before  the  angry  deity. 

But  now  attend,  while  I  unfold 

The  lore  my  brave  forefathers  taught : 
As  yet  the  storm,  the  heat,  the  cold, 

The  changing  seasons  had  not  brought 
Famine  was  not ;  each  tree  and  grot 

Grew  greener  for  the  rain  ; 
The  wanton  doe,  the  buffalo. 

Blithe  bounded  on  the  plain. 
In  mirth  did  man  the  hours  employ 

Of  that  eternal  spring  ; 
With  song  and  dance,  and  shouts  of  joy, 

Did  hill  and  valley  ring. 
No  death- shot  peal'd  upon  the  ear, 
No  painted  warrior  poised  the  spear, 
No  stake-doom'd  captive  shook  for  fear; 

No  arrow  left  the  string, 
Save  when  the  wolf  to  earth  was  borne ; 
From  foeman's  head  no  scalp  was  torn  ; 
Nor  did  the  pangs  of  hate  and  scorn 

The  red  man's  bosom  wring. 
Then  waving  fields  of  yellow  corn 
Did  our  bless'd  villages  adorn. 

Alas  !  that  man  will  never  learn 

His  good  from  evil  to  discern. 

At  length,  by  furious  passions  driven, 

The  Indian  left  his  babes  and  wife, 
And  every  blessing  God  has  given, 

To  mingle  in  the  deadly  strife. 
Fierce  Wrath  and  haggard  Envy  soon 
Achieved  the  work  that  War  begun  ; 
He  left,  unsought,  the  beast  of  chase, 
And  prey'd  upon  his  kindred  race. 
But  He  who  rules  the  earth  and  skies, 
Who  watches  every  bolt  that  flies  ; 


W.    J.    SNELLING.  293 

From  whom  all  gifts,  all  blessings  flow, 
With  grief  beheld  the  scene  below. 
He  wept  ;  and,  as  the  balmy  shower 

Refreshing  to  the  ground  descended, 
Each  drop  gave  being  to  a  flower, 

And  all  the  hills  in  homage  bended. 
"  Alas  !"  the  good  Great  Spirit  said, 

"  Man  merits  not  the  climes  I  gave ; 
Where'er  a  hillock  rears  its  head, 

He  digs  his  brother's  timeless  grave  : 
To  every  crystal  rill  of  water, 
He  gives  the  crimson  stain  of  slaughter. 
No  more  for  him  my  brow  shall  wear 

A  constant,  glad,  approving  smile  ; 
Ah,  no  !  my  eyes  must  withering  glare 

On  bloody  hands  and  deeds  of  guile. 
Henceforth  shall  my  lost  children  know 
The  piercing  wind,  the  blinding  snow ; 
The  storm  shall  drench,  the  sun  shall  burn, 
The  winter  freeze  them,  each  in  turn. 
Henceforth  their  feeble  frames  shall  feel 
A  climate  like  their  hearts  of  steel." 

The  moon  that  night  withheld  her  light. 
By  fits,  instead,  a  lurid  glare 
Illumed  the  skies  ;  while  mortal  eyes 

Were  closed,  and  voices  rose  in  prayer. 
While  the  revolving  sun 
Three  times  his  course  might  run, 

The  dreadful  darkness  lasted. 
And  all  that  time  the  red  man's  eye 
A  sleeping  spirit  might  espy, 
Upon  a  tree-top  cradled  high, 

Whose  trunk  his  breath  had  blasted. 
So  long  he  slept,  he  grew  so  fast, 

Beneath  his  weight  the  gnarleH  oak 
Snapp'd,  as  the  tempest  snaps  the  mast. 

It  fell,  and  Thunder  woke  ! 

B  ii 


294  W.   J,    SNELLING. 

The  world  to  its  foundation  shook, 
The  grisly  bear  his  prey  forsook, 
The  scowling  heaven  an  aspect  bore 
That  man  had  never  seen  before  ; 
The  wolf  in  terror  fled  away, 
And  shone  at  last  the  light  of  day. 

'Twas  here  he  stood  ;  these  lakes  attest 
"Where  first  Waw-kee-an's  footsteps  press'd. 
About  his  burning  brow  a  cloud, 

Black  as  the  raven's  wing,  he  wore  ; 
Thick  tempests  wrapp'd  him  like  a  shroud, 

Red  lightnings  in  his  hand  he  bore  ; 
Like  two  bright  suns  his  eyeballs  shone, 
His  voice  was  like  the  cannon's  tone  ; 
And,  where  he  breathed,  the  land  became, 
Prairie  and  wood,  one  sheet  of  flame. 
Not  long  upon  this  mountain  height 

The  first  and  worst  of  storms  abode, 
For,  moving  in  his  fearful  might, 

Abroad  the  God-begotten  strode. 
Afar,  on  yonder  faint  blue  mound, 
In  the  horizon's  utmost  bound, 
At  the  first  stride  his  foot  he  set ; 

The  jarring  world  confess'd  the  shock. 
Stranger  !  the  track  of  Thunder  yet 

Remains  upon  the  living  rock. 
The  second  step,  he  gain'd  the  sand 
On  far  Superior's  storm-beat  strand  : 
Then  with  his  shout  the  concave  rung,' 
As  up  to  heaven  the  giant  sprung 

On  high,  beside  his  sire  to  dwell ; 
But  still,  of  all  the  spots  on  earth, 
He  loves  the  woods  that  gave  him  birth.—* 

Such  is  the  tale  our  fathers  tell. 


WILLIS    GAYLORD    CLARK.  295 

WILLIS   GAYLORD   CLARK. 
THE  BURUL-PLACB  AT  LAUREL  HILL. 

HERE  the  lamented  dead  in  dust  shall  lie, 
Life's  lingering  languors  o'er,  its  labours  done ; 

"Where  waving  boughs,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
Admit  the  farewell  radiance  of  the  sun. 

Here  the  long  concourse  from  the  murmuring  town, 
With  funeral  pace  and  slow,  shall  enter  in ; 

To  lay  the  loved  in  tranquil  silence  down, 
No  more  to  suffer,  and  no  more  to  sin. 

And  in  this  hallow'd  spot,  where  Nature  showers 
Her  summer  smiles  from  fair  and  stainless  skies, 

Affection's  hand  may  strew  her  dewy  flowers, 
Whose  fragrant  incense  from  the  grave  shall  rise. 

And  here  the  impressive  stone,  engraved  with  wordc 
Which  grief  sententious  gives  to  marble  pale, 

Shall  teach  the  heart ;  while  waters,  leaves,  and  birds 
Make  cheerful  music  in  the  passing  gale. 

Say,  wherefore  should  we  weep,  and  wherefore  pour 
On  scented  airs  the  unavailing  sigh — 

While  sun-bright  waves  are  quivering  to  the  shore, 
And  landscapes  blooming — that  the  loved  must  die  ? 

There  is  an  emblem  in  this  peaceful  scene  : 
Soon  rainbow  colours  on  the  woods  will  fall ; 

And  autumn  gusts  bereave  the  hills  of  green, 
As  sinks  the  year  to  meet  its  cloudy  pall. 

Then,  cold  and  pale,  in  distant  vistas  round, 
Disrobed  and  tuneless,  all  the  woods  will  stand ; 

While  the  chain'd  streams  are  silent  as  the  ground, 
As  Death  had  numb'd  them  with  his  icy  hand. 

Yet  when  the  warm,  soft  winds  shall  rise  in  spring, 
Like  struggling  daybeams  o'er  a  blasted  heath, 

The  bird  return'd  shall  poise  her  golden  wing, 
And  liberal  Nature  break  the  spell  of  Death, 


296       WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 

So,  when  the  tomb's  dull  silence  finds  an  end. 

The  blessed  dead  to  endless  youth  shall  rise ; 
And  hear  th'  archangel's  thrilling  summons  blend 

Its  tone  with  anthems  from  the  upper  skies. 

There  shall  the  good  of  earth  be  found  at  last, 
Where  dazzling  streams  and  vernal  fields  expand ; 

Where  Love  her  crown  attains — her  trials  past — 
And,  fill'd  with  rapture,  hails  the  "  better  land !" 


THE  EARLY  DEAD. 

"Why  mourn  for  the  young?  Better  that  the  light  cloud 
should  fade  away  in  the  morning's  breath,  than  travel  through 
the  weary  day,  to  gather  in  darkness,  and  end  in  storm." — BUL- 

WKR. 

IF  it  be  sad  to  mark  the  bow'd  with  age 
Sink  in  the  halls  of  the  remorseless  tomb, 

Closing  the  changes  of  life's  pilgrimage 
In  the  still  darkness  of  its  mouldering  gloom  ; 

Oh !  what  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart  is  flung, 

When  peals  the  requiem  of  the  loved  and  young ! 

They  to  whose  bosoms,  like  the  dawn  of  spring 
To  the  unfolding  bud  and  scented  rose, 

Comes  the  pure  freshness  age  can  never  bring, 
And  fills  the  spirit  with  a  rich  repose, 

How  shall  we  lay  them  in  their  final  rest  ? 

How  pile  the  clods  upon  their  wasting  breast  ? 

Life  openeth  brightly  to  their  ardent  gaze  ; 

A.  glorious  pomp  sits  on  the  gorgeous  sky ; 
O'er  the  broad  world  Hope's  smile  incessant  plays, 

And  scenes  of  beauty  win  the  enchanted  eye  : 
How  sad  to  break  the  vision,  and  to  fold 
Each  lifeless  form  in  earth's  embracing  mould  ! 

Yet  this  is  life !     To  mark  from  day  to  day, 
Youth,  in  the  freshness  of  its  morning  prime, 

Pass,  like  the  anthem  of  a  breeze  away, 
Sinking  in  waves  of  Death  ere  chill'd  by  Time ! 


WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK.        297 

Ere  yet  dark  years  on  the  warm  cheek  had  shed 
Autumnal  mildew  o'er  its  roselike  red ! 

And  yet  what  mourner,  though  the  pensive  eye 
Be  dimly  thoughtful  in  its  burning  tears, 

But  should  with  rapture  gaze  upon  the  sky,    [reers  ? 
Through  whose  far  depths  the  spirit's  wing  ca- 

There  gleams  eternal  o'er  their  ways  are  flung, 

"Who  fade  from  earth  while  yet  their  years  are  young ! 


DEATH    OF    THE    FIRSTBORN. 

"  Ah  !  welaway !  most  angel-like  of  face, 
A  childe,  young  in  his  pure  innocence, 
Tender  of  limbes,  God  wrote,  full  guilteless, 
The  goodly  faire  that  lieth  here  speecheless. 

A  mouth  he  has,  but  words  hath  he  none  ; 
Cannot  complain,  alas  !  for  none  outrage, 

Nor  grutcheth  not,  but  lies  here,  all  alone, 
Still  as  a  lambe,  most  meke  of  his  visage  : 
What  hearte  of  stele  could  do  to  hirn  damage, 
Or  suffer  him  die,  beholding  the  manere, 
And  looke  benigne  of  his  tweme  eyen  clere?" 

LYDGATB. 

YOUNG  mother,  he  is  gone ! 
His  dimpled  cheek  no  more  will  touch  thy  breast ; 

No  more  the  music-tone 
Float  from  his  lips,  to  thine  all  fondly  press'd ; 
His  smile  and  happy  laugh  are  lost  to  thee  : 
Earth  must  his  mother  and  his  pillow  be. 

His  was  the  morning  hour  ; 
And  he  hath  pass'd  in  beauty  from  the  day, 

A  bud,  not  yet  a  flower, 
Torn,  in  its  sweetness,  from  the  parent  spray  : 
The  death-wind  swept  him  to  his  soft  repose, 
As  frost,  in  springtime,  blights  the  early  rose. 

Never  on  earth  again 
Will  his  rich  accents  charm  thy  listening  ear, 

Like  some  ^Eolian  strain, 
Breathing  at  eventide  serene  and  clear ; 


298  ALBERT   PIKE. 

His  voice  is  choked  in  dust,  and  on  his  eyes 
The  unbroken  seal  of  peace  and  silence  lies. 

And  from  thy  yearning  heart, 
Whose  inmost  core  was  warm  with  love  for  him, 

A  gladness  must  depart, 
And -those  kind  eyes  with  many  tears  be  dim  ; 
While  lonely  memories,  an  unceasing  train, 
WTill  turn  the  raptures  of  the  past  to  pain. 

Yet,  mourner !  while  the  day 
Rolls  like  the  darkness  of  a  funeral  by, 

And  Hope  forbids  one  ray 
To  stream  athwart  the  grief-discolour'd  sky ; 
There  breaks  upon  thy  sorrow's  evening  gloom, 
A  trembling  lustre  from  beyond  the  tomb. 

'Tis  from  the  Better  Land! 
There,  bathed  in  radiance  that  around  them  springs, 

Thy  loved  one's  wings  expand ; 
As  with  the  choiring  cherubim  he  sings, 
And  all  the  glory  of  that  God  can  see, 
Who  said,  on  earth,  to  children,  "  Come  to  me." 

Mother,  thy  child  is  bless'd  : 
And  though  his  presence  may  be  lost  to  thee, 

And  vacant  leave  thy  breast, 
And  miss'd,  a  sweet  load  from  thy  parent  knee  ; 
Though  tones  familiar  from  thine  ear  have  pass'd, 
Thou'lt  meet  thy  firstborn  with  his  Lord  at  last. 


ALBERT   PIKE. 

TO    SPRING. 

OH  thou  delicious  Spring ! 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  thin  and  subtle  showers, 

Which  fall  from  clouds  that  lift  their  snowy  wing 
From  odorous  beds  of  light-infolded  flowers, 

And  from  enmass'd  bowers, 
That  over  grassy  walks  their  greenness  fling, 
Come,  gentle  Spring ! 


ALBERT   PIKE.  299 

Thou  lover  of  young  wind, 

That  cometh  from  the  invisible  upper  sea         [bind, 
Beneath  the  sky,  which  clouds,  its  white  foam, 
And,  settling  in  the  trees  deliciously, 

Makes  young  leaves  dance  with  glee, 
Even  in  the  teeth  of  that  old  sober  hind, 
Winter  unkind, 

Come  to  us ;  for  thou  art 
Like  the  fine  love  of  children,  gentle  Spring  I 

Touching  the  sacred  feeling  of  the  heart, 
Or  like  a  virgin's  pleasant  welcoming; 

And  thou  dost  ever  bring 
A  tide  of  gentle  but  resistless  art 
Upon  the  heart. 

Red  Autumn  from  the  south 
Contends  with  thee  ;  alas !  what  may  he  show  ? 

What  are  his  purple-stain'd  and  rosy  mouth, 
And  browned  cheeks,  to  thy  soft  feet  of  snow, 

And  timid,  pleasant  glow, 

Giving  earth-piercing  flowers  their  primal  growth, 
And  greenest  youth  1 

Gay  Summer  conquers  thee  ; 
And  yet  he  has  no  beauty  such  as  thine : 
What  is  his  ever-streaming,  fiery  sea, 
To  the  pure  glory  that  with  thee  doth  shine  ? 

Thou  season  most  divine, 
What  may  his  dull  and  lifeless  minstrelsy 
Compare  with  thee  ? 

Come,  sit  upon  the  hills, 
And  bid  the  waking  streams  leap  down  their  side, 

And  green  the  vales  with  their  slight-sounding  rills; 
And  when  the  stars  upon  the  sky  shall  glide. 

And  crescent  Dian  ride, 
I  too  will  breathe  of  thy  delicious  thrills* 
On  grassy  hills. 


300  H.   T.   TUCKERMAN. 

Alas !  bright  Spring,  not  long 
Shall  I  enjoy  thy  pleasant  influence ; 

For  thou  shalt  die  the  summer  heat  among, 
Sublimed  to  vapour  in  his  fire  intense, 
And,  gone  for  ever  hence, 
Exist  no  more  :  no  more  to  earth  belong, 
Except  in  song. 

So  I  who  sing  shall  die  : 
Worn  unto  death,  perchance,  by  care  and  sorrow ; 

And,  fainting  thus  with  an  unconscious  sigh, 
Bid  unto  this  poor  body  a  good-morrow, 

Which  now  sometimes  I  borrow, 
And  breathe  of  joyance  keener  and  more  high, 
Ceasing  to  sigh ! 


H.  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

TRI-MOUNTAIN. 

THROUGH  Time's  dim  atmosphere,  behold 

Those  ancient  hills  again, 
Rising  to  Fancy's  eager  view 

In  solitude,  as  when 
Beneath  the  summer  firmament, 

So  silently  of  yore, 
The  shadow  of  each  passing  cloud 

Their  rugged  bosoms  bore ! 

They  sloped  in  pathless  grandeur  then 

Down  to  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  rose  upon  the  woodland  plain 

In  lonely  majesty. 
The  breeze,  at  noontide,  whisper'd  soft 

Their  emerald  knolls  among. 
And  midnight's  wind,  amid  their  heights, 

Its  wildest  dirges  sung. 


H.    T.    TUCKERMAN.  301 

As  on  their  brow  the  forest  king 

Paused  in  his  weary  way, 
From  far  below  his  quick  ear  caught 

The  moaning  of  the  bay. 
The  dry  leaves,  fann'd  by  Autumn's  breath, 

Along  their  ridges  crept ; 
And  snow-wreaths,  like  storm-whiten'd  waves, 

Around  them  rudely  swept. 

For  ages,  o'er  their  swelling  sides, 

Grew  the  wild  flowers  of  Spring, 
And  stars  smiled  down,  and  dew-founts  pour'd 

Their  gentle  offering. 
The  moonbeams  play'd  upon  their  peaks, 

And  at  their  feet  the  tide  ; 
And  thus,  like  altar-mounts  they  stood, 

By  nature  sanctified. 

Now,  when  to  mark  their  beacon  forms 

The  seaman  turns  his  gaze, 
It  quails,  as  roof,  and  spire,  and  dome 

Flash  in  the  sun's  bright  rays. 
On  those  wild  hills  a  thousand  homes 

Are  rear'd  in  proud  array, 
And  argosies  float  safely  o'er 

That  lone  and  isle-gemm'd  bay. 

Those  shadowy  mounds,  so  long  imtrod, 

By  countless  feet  are  press'd ; 
And  hosts  of  loved  ones  meekly  sleep 

Below  their  teeming  breast. 
A  world's  unnumber'd  voices  float 

Within  their  narrow  bound : 
Love's  gentle  tone,  and  traffic's  hum, 

And  music's  thrilling  sound. 

There  Liberty  first  found  a  tongue 

Beneath  New-England's  sky, 
And  there  her  earliest  martyrs  stood, 

And  nerved  themselves  to  die* 
Cc 


302  SEBA   SMITH. 

And  long  upon  these  ancient  hills, 
By  glory  ;s  light  enshrined, 

May  rise  the  dwellings  of  the  fre.e, 
The  city  of  the  mind. 


SEBA   SMITH. 
THE  MOTHER  PERISHING  IN  A  SNOWSTORM. 

"  In  the  year  1821,  a  Mrs.  Blake  perished  in  a  snowstorm  in 
the  nighttime,  while  travelling  over  a  spur  of  the  Green  Mount 
ains  in  Vermont.  She  had  an  infant  with  h§r,  which  was  found 
alive  and  well  in  the  morning,  being  carefully  wrapped  in  the 
mother's  clothing." 

THE  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain's  height, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 
And  mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 

A  mother  wandered  with  her  child  : 
As  through  the  drifting  snow  she  press'd, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 
And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow : 
Her  limbs  were  chill'd,  her  strength  was  gone  ? 

"  Oh,  God !"  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

"  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child !" 

She  stripped  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 

And  round  the  child  she  wrapp'd  the  vest, 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm* 

With  one  cold  kiss  one  tear  she  shed, 

And  sunk  upon  her  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn  a  traveller  passed  by, 

And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil ; 
The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale  j 
He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child, 
The  babe  look'd  up  and  sweetly  smiled ! 


NEHEMIAH    CLEAVELAND.  303 


NEHEMIAH   CLEAVELAND. 
AN  AIR-CHATEAU. 

How  beauteous  in  the  glowing  west, 
Those  thousand-tinted  isles  that  float ; 

On  the  broad  sea  of  light  they  rest, 
Or  pass  to  lovelier  realms  remote. 

Methinks  it  were  a  bliss  to  roam 
Where  those  far  fields  in  beauty  lie  ; 

Methinks  there  were  a  welcome  home 
In  the  soft  clime  of  yonder  sky. 

On  some  bright,  sunny  cloud,  I'd  build 
My  palace  in  the  verge  of  heaven; 

On  marble  fix  it  firm,  and  gild 
Its  cornices  with  gold  of  even. 

From  amethystine  beds  I'd  draw 
Iviy  blocks  to  shape  its  swelling  dome  ; 

Here  should  you  trace  the  old  Doric  law, 
There  the  Corinthian  grace  of  Rome. 

In  avenues  of  enchanting  sweep, 

Broad  oaks  and  towering  elms  should  stand ; 
Blue  lakes  in  placid  stillness  sleep, 

And  currents  roll  o'er  silver  sand. 

Perchance,  to  animate  the  scene, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  art  and  gold, 

Some  spirit,  whose  seraphic  mien 
Should  wear  no  trace  of  earthly  mould, 

Crowning  each  hope,  might  cheer  my  eyes 
With  beauty,  and  with  love  my  heart, 

And  to  my  sky-hung  Paradise 
Its  last  and  loveliest  charm  impart. 

The  day,  with  her,  more  calm,  more  bright, 

Would  flit  on  silken  wing  away  ; 
With  her,  the  dark  and  drowsy  night 

Seem  soft  and  cheerful  as  the  day. 


304  WILLIAM   D.    GALLAHER. 

Pensive  we'd  rove  where  scarce  a  ray 
Pierces  the  dun  o'erhanging  shade, 

Or,  arm  in  arm,  delighted  stray 
Through  flowery  lawn  and  emerald  glade. 

The  joys  of  high,  soul-kindling  thought ; 
Sweet  converse  at  the  twilight  hour  ; 
The  pleasures  of  a  life,  untaught 
-  To  pant  for  wealth  or  sigh  for  power ; 

The  calm  delights  of  letter'd  ease  ; 

Of  virtuous  toil  the  peaceful  rest : 
Who  finds  his  bliss  in  such  as  these, 

How  truly  wise,  how  deeply  bless'd! 

Of  joy,  on  earth  or  in  the  skies, 
But  one  perennial  spring  is  found  ; 

Deep  in  the  soul  that  fountain  lies, 
And  flowers  of  Eden  fringe  it  round. 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAHER. 

AUGUST. 

"  The  quiet  August  noon  has  come ; 

A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky  ; 
The  winds  are  still,  the  trees  are  dumb, 
In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie."  BRYANT. 

DUST  on  thy  mantle  !  dust, 
Bright  Summer,  on  thy  livery  of  green ! 
A  tarnish,  as  of  rust, 
Dimmeth  thy  brilliant  sheen  : 
And  the  young  glories— leaf,  and  bud,  and  flower, 
Change  cometh  o'er  them  with  every  hour. 

These  hath  the  August  sun 
Look'd  on  with  hot,  and  fierce,  and  brassy  face  : 
And  still  and  lazily  run, 
Scarce  whispering  in  their  pace, 


WILLIAM   D.    GALLAHER.  305 

The  half-dried  rivulets,  that  lately  sent 
A  shout  of  gladness  up,  as  on  they  went. 

Flame-like,  the  long  midday, 
With  not  so  much  of  sweet  air  as  hath  stirr'd 

The  down  upon  the  spray, 

Where  rests  the  panting  bird, 
Dozing  away  the  hot  and  tedious  noon, 
With  fitful  twitter,  sadly  out  of  tune. 

Seeds  in  the  sultry  air, 

And  gossamer  webwork  on  the  sleeping  trees ! 
E'en  the  tall  pines,  that  rear 
Their  plumes  to  catch  the  breeze, 
The  slightest  breeze  from  the  unfruitful  West, 
Partake  the  general  languor  and  deep  rest. 

Happy,  as  man  may  be, 

Stretch'd  on  his  back,  in  homely  beanvine  bower, 
While  the  voluptuous  bee 
Robs  each  surrounding  flower, 
And  prattling  childhood  clambers  o'er  his  breast, 
The  husbandman  enjoys  his  noonday  rest. 

Against  the  mazy  sky, 
Motionless  rests  the  thin  and  fleecy  cloud, 
LEE,  such  have  met  thine  eye, 
And  such  thy  canvass  crowd  ! 
And,  painter,  ere  it  from  thy  easel  goes, 
With  the  sky's  light,  and  shade,  and  warmth  it  glows. 

Thy  pencil,  too,  can  give 
Form  to  the  glowing  images  that  throng 

The  poet's  brain,  and  live 

For  ever  in  his  song. 
Glory  awaits  thee,  gifted  one  !  and  Fame 
High  in  Art's  temple  shall  inscribe  thy  name. 

Soberly,  in  the  shade, 
Repose  the  patient  cow  and  toilworn  ox ; 
Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade, 
Shelter'd  by  jutting  rocks : 
Cc2 


306  ELIZABETH    PARK. 

The  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourged  and  restless,  rush 
Madly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  bush  to  bush. 

Slow,  now,  along  the  plain, 
Creeps  the  cool  shade,  and  on  the  meadow's  edge ; 

The  kine  are  forth  again, 

The  bird  flits  in  the  hedge ; 
Now  in  the  molten  west  sinks  the  hot  sun. 
Welcome,  mild  eve  !  the  sultry  day  is  done. 

Pleasantly  comest  thou, 
Dew  of  the  evening,  to  the  crisp'd-up  grass ; 

And  the  curled  cornblades  bow 

As  the  light  breezes  pass, 

That  their  parch'd  lips  may  feel  thee,  and  expand, 
Thou  sweet  reviver  of  the  fever'd  land. 

So  to  the  thirsting  soul 
Cometh  the  dew  pf  the  Almighty's  love  ; 

And  the  scathed  heart,  made  whole, 

Turneth  in  joy  above, 
To  where  the  spirit  freely  may  expand, 
And  rove  untrammell'd  in  that  "  better  land." 


ELIZABETH  PARK. 

SCENE     FROM    "  MIRIAM." 

[Euphas,  a  young  Roman  and  a  Christian,  appears  be 
fore  Piso,  a  persecutor  of  the  Christians  at  Rome,  to 
demand  the  liberation  of  his  father  Thraseno,  who  is 
in  prison  on  account  of  his  faith.  He  informs  him 
that  Paulus,  the  son  of  Piso,  who  had  become  enamour 
ed  of  Miriam,  the  sister  of  Euphas,  is  in  the  hands  of 
the  Christians,  and  proposes  to  give  him  up  in  ex 
change  for  Thraseno.  The  dialogue  thus  proceeds : 

Euphas.  LET  me  but  die 

First  of  thy  victims — 


ELIZABETH   PARK.  307 

Piso.  Would  that  among  them — 

Where  is  the  sorceress  l.     I  fain  would  see 
The  beauty  that  hathwitch'd  Rome's  noblest  youth. 

Euphas.  Hers  is  a  face  thou  never  wilt  behold. 

Piso.  I  will. 

On  her — on  her  shall  fall  my  worst  revenge  ; 
And  I  will  know  what  foul  and  magic  arts — 

[Miriam  glides  in.    A  pause. 
Beautiful  shadow !  in  this  hour  of  wrath, 
What  dost  thou  here  }    In  life  thou  wert  too  meek, 
Too  gentle  for  a  lover  stern  as  I. 
And,  since  I  saw  thee  last,  my  days  have  been 
Deep  steep'd  in  sin  and  blood !    What  seekest  thou? 
I  have  grown  old  in  strife,  and  hast  thou  come, 
With  thy  dark  eyes  and  their  soul-searching  glance, 
To  look  me  into  peace  1     It  cannot  be. 
Go  back,  fair  spirit,  to  thine  own  dim  realms  ! 
He  whose  young  love  thou  didst  reject  on  earth, 
May  tremble  at  this  visitation  strange, 
But  never  can  know  peace  or  virtue  more  ! 
Thou  wert  a  Christian,  and  a  Christian  dog 
Did  win  thy  precious  love.     1  have  good  cause 
To  hate  and  scorn  the  whole  detested  race  ; 
And  till  I  meet  that  man,  whom  most  of  all 
My  soul  abhors,  will  I  go  on  a^nd  slay ! 
Fade,  vanish,  shadow  bright !    In  vain  that  look ! 
That  sweet,  sad  look !     My  lot  is  cast  in  blood ! 

Miriam.  Oh,  say  not  so  ! 

Piso.  The  voice  that  won  me  first ! 

Oh,  what  a  tide  of  recollections  rush 
Upon  my  drowning  soul !  my  own  wild  love — 
Thy  scorn — the  long,  long  days  of  blood  and  guilt 
That  since  have  left  their  footprints  on  my  fate  ! 
The  dark,  dark  nights  of  fever'd  agony, 
When,  mid  the  strife  and  struggling  of  my  dreams, 
The  gods  sent  thee  at  times  to  hover  round, 
Bringing  the  mem'ry  of  those  peaceful  days 
When  I  beheld  thee  first !     But  never  yet 
Before  my  waking  eyes  hast  thou  appear'd 


3€8  ELIZABETH    PARK. 

Distinct  and  visible  as  now !     Spirit ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  1 

Miriam.  Oh,  man  of  guilt  and  wo? 

Thine  own  dark  phantasies  are  busy  now, 
Lending  unearthly  seeming  to  a  thing 
Of  earth,  as  thou  art ! 

Piso.  How !     Art  thou  not  she  ? 

I  know  that  face !     I  never  yet  beheld 
One  like  to  it  among  earth's  loveliest. 
Why  dost  thou  wear  that  semblance,  if  thou  art 
A  thing  of  mortal  mould  1     Oh,  better  meet 
The  wailing  ghosts  of  those  whose  blood  doth  clog 
My  midnight  dreams,  than  that  half-pitying  eye  ! 

Miriam. '  Thou  art  a  wretched  man  !  and  1  do  feel 
Pity  ev'n  for  the  suff'ring  guilt  hath  brought. 
But  from  the  quiet  grave  I  have  not  come, 
Nor  from  the  shadowy  confines  of  the  world 
Where  spirits  dwell,  to  haunt  thy  midnight  hour. 
The  disimbodied  should  be  passionless, 
And  wear  not  eyes  that  swim  in  earth-born  tears, 
As  mine  do  now !    Look  up,  thou  conscience-struck ! 

Piso.  Off !  off !     She  touch'd  me  with  her  damp, 

cold  hand  ! 

But  'twas  a  hand  of  flesh  and  blood  !     Away  ! 
Come  thou  not  near  me  till  I  study  thee. 

Miriam.  Why  are  mine  eyes  so  lix'd  and  wild? 

thy  lips 

Convulsed  and  ghastly  white  1    Thine  own  dark  sins, 
Vexing  thy  soul,  have  clad  me  in  a  form 
Thou  dar'st  not  look  upon — I  know  not  why. 
But  I  must  speak  to  thee.     Mid  thy  remorse, 
And  the  unwonted  terrors  of  thy  soul, 
I  must  be  heard,  for  God  hath  sent  me  here. 

Piso.  Who,  who  hath  sent  thee  here  ? 

Miriam.  The  Christian's  God, 

The  God  thou  knowest  not. 

Piso.  Thou  art  of  earth ! 

I  see  the  rose-tint  on  thy  pallid  cheek, 
Which  was  not  there  at  first ;  it  kindles  fast ! 


ELIZABETH    PARK.  309 

Say  on.    Although  I  dare  not  meet  that  eye, 
I  hear  thee. 

Miriam.        He  hath  given  me  strength, 
And  led  me  safely  through  the  broad  lone  streets, 
Ev'n  at  the  midnight  hour  !     My  heart  sunk  not ; 
My  noiseless  foot  paced  on  unfaltering 
Through  the  long  colonnades,  where  stood  aloft 
Pale  gods  and  goddesses  on  either  hand, 
Bending  their  sightless  eyes  on  me !  by  cool  founts, 
Waking  with  ceaseless  plash  the  midnight  air  ! 
Through  moonlit  squares,  where,  ever  and  anon, 
Flash1!  from  some  dusky  nook  the  red  torchlight, 
Flung  on  my  path  by  passing  reveller. 
And  He  hath  brought  me  here  before  thy  face  ; 
And  it  was  He  who  smote  thee  even  now 
With  a  strange,  nameless  fear. 

Piso.  Girl !  name  it  not. 

I  deenVd  I  look'd  on  one  whose  bright  young  face 
First  glanced  upon  me  mid  the  shining  leaves 
Of  a  green  bower  in  sunny  Palestine, 
In  my  youth's  prime  !    I  knew  the  dust, 
The  grave's  corroding  dust,  had  soil'd 
That  spotless  brow  long  since.     A  shadow  fell 
Upon  the  soul  that  never  yet  knew  fear. 
But  it  is  past.     Earth  holds  not  what  I  dread  ; 
And  what  the  gods  did  make  me  am  I  now. 
What  seekest  thou  ? 

Euphas.  Miriam !  go  thou  hence. 

Why  shouidst  thou  die  ? 

Miriam.  Brother ! 

Piso.  Ha  !  is  this  so  ? 

Now,  by  the  gods  ! — Bar,  bar  the  gates,  ye  slaves  ! 
If  they  escape  me  now — Why  this  is  good  ! 
I  had  not  dream'd  of  hap  so  glorious. 
His  sister!  she  that  beguiled  my  son ! 

Miriam.  Peace ! 

Name  not  with  tongue  unhallow'd  love  like  ours. 

Piso.  Thou  art  her  image  ;  and  the  mystery 
Confounds  my  purposes.     Take  other  form, 
Foul  sorceress,  and  I  will  baffle  thee ! 


310  ELIZABETH    PARK. 

Miriam.  I  have  no  other  form  than  this  God  gave ; 
And  he  already  hath  stretch'd  forth  his  hand, 
And  touch'd  it  for  the  grave. 

Piso.  It  is  most  strange. 

Is  not  the  air  around  her  full  of  spells } 
Give  me  the  son  thou  hast  seduced ! 

Miriam.  Piso ! 

Thy  son  hath  seen  me,  loved  me,  and  hath  won 
A  heart  too  prone  to  worship  noble  things, 
Although  of  earth  ;  and  he,  alas  !  was  earth's  ! 
I  strove,  I  pray'd  in  vain !     In  all  things  else 
I  might  have  stirr'd  his  soul's  best  purposes. 
But  for  the  pure  and  cheering  faith  of  Christ, 
There  was  no  entrance  in  that  iron  soul. 
And  I — amid  such  hopes,  despair  arose, 
And  laid  a  with'ring  hand  upon  my  heart, 
I  feel  it  yet !     We  parted  !     Ay,  this  night 
"We  met  to  meet  no  more. 

Euphas.  Sister !  my  tears — 

They  choke  my  words — else— 

Miriam.  Euphas,  thou  wert  wroth 

When  there  was  little  cause  ;  I  loved  thee  more. 
Thy  very  frowns  in  such  a  holy  cause 
Were  beautiful.     The  scorn  of  virtuous  youth, 
Looking  on  fancied  sin,  is  noble. 

Piso.  Maid ! 

Hath  then  my  son  withstood  thy  witchery, 
And  on  this  ground  ye.  parted  ? 

Miriam.  It  is  so. 

Alas !  that  I  rejoice  to  say  it. 

Piso.  Nay, 

Well  thou  mayst,  for  it  hath  wrought  his  pardon. 
That  he  had  loved  thee  would  have  been  a  sin 
Too  full  of  degradation — infamy, 
Had  not  these  cold  and  aged  eyes  themselves 
Beheld  thee  in  thy  loveliness !     And  yet,  bold  girl ! 
Think  not  thy  Jewish  beauty  is  the  spell 
That  works  on  one  grown  old  in  deeds  of  blood. 
J  have  look'd  calmly  on  when  eyes  as  bright 


ELIZABETH   PARK.  311 

Were  drown'd  in  tears  of  bitter  agony, 
When  forms  as  full  of  grace  and  pride,  perchance, 
Were  writhing  in  the  sharpness  of  their  pain, 
And  cheeks  as  fair  were  mangled — 

Euphas.  Tyrant!  cease* 

Wert  thou  a  fiend,  such  brutal  boasts  as  these 
Were  not  for  ears  like  hers ! 

Miriam.  I  tremble  not. 

He  spake  of  pardon  for  his  guiltless  son, 
And  that  includeth  life  for  those  I  love. 
What  need  1  more  1 

Euphas.  Let  us  go  hence.     Piso ! 

Bid  thou  thy  myrmidons  unbar  the  gates, 
That  shut  our  friends  from  light  and  air. 

Piso.  Not  yet, 

My  haughty  boy,  for  we  have  much  to  say 
Ere  you  two  pretty  birds  go  free.     Chafe  not ! 
Ye  are  caged  close,  and  can  but  flutter  here 
Till  I  am  satisfied. 

Miriam.  How  !  hast  thou  changed— 

Piso.  Nay  ;  but  I  must  detain  ye  till  I  ask — 
Miriam.  Detain  us  if  thou  wilt.  But  look — 
Piso.  At  what  * 

Miriam.  There,  through  yon  western  arch!   the 

moon  sinks  low. 

The  mists  already  tinge  her  orb  with  blood. 
Methinks  I  feel  the  breeze  of  morn  ev'n  now. 
Know'st  thou  the  hour  1 

Piso.  I  do  :  but  one  thing  more 

I  fain  would  know ;  for,  after  this  wild  night, 
Let  me  no  more  behold  you.     Why  didst  thou,  . 
Bold,  dark-hair'd  boy,  wear  in  those  pleading  eyes, 
When  thou  didst  name  thy  boon,  an  earnest  look 
That  fell  familiar  on  my  soul  ?    And  thou, 
The  lofty,  calm,  and  oh!  most  beautiful! 
Why  are  not  only  that  soul-searching  glance, 
But  ev'n  thy  features  and  thy  silver  voice 
So  like  to  hers  I  loved  long  years  ago, 
Beneath  Judea's  palms  ?    Whence  do  ye  come  ? 


312  ELIZABETH    PARK. 

Miriam.  For  me,  I  bear  my  own  dear  mother's 
Her  eye,  her  form,  her  very  voice  are  mine,     [brow ; 
So,  in  his  tears,  my  father  oft  hath  said. 
We  lived  beneath  Judea's  shady  palms 
Until  that  saintlike  mother  faded,  droop'd, 
And  died.     Then  hither  came  we  o'er  the  waves. 
And  till  this  night  have  worshipp'd  faithfully 
The  one,  true,  living  God,  in  secret  peace. 

Piso.  Thou  art  her  child !     I  could  not  harm  thee 
Oh,  wonderful !  that  things  so  long  forgot —     [now. 
A  love  I  thought  so  crush'd  and  trodden  down, 
Ev'n  by  the  iron  tread  of  passion  wild — 
Ambition,  pride,  and,  worst  of  all,  revenge — 
Revenge,  that  hath  shed  seas  of  Christian  blood ! 
To  think  this  heart  was  once  so  waxen  soft, 
And  then  congeal'd  so  hard,  that  naught  of  all 
Which  hath  been  since  could  ever  have  the  pow'r 
To  wear  away  the  image  of  that  girl- 
That  fair  young  Christian  girl !    Twas  a  wild  love! 
But  I  was  young,  a  soldier  in  strange  lands, 
And  she,  in  very  gentleness,  said  nay 
So  timidly,  I  hoped — until,  ye  gods ! 
She  loved  another  !    Yet  I  slew  him  not ! 
I  fled  !     Oh,  had  I  met  him  since  ! 

Euphas.  Sister! 

The  hours  wear  on. 

Piso.  Ye  shall  go  forth  in  joy— 

And  take  with  you  yon  pris'ners.     Send  my  son, 
Him  whom  she  did  not  bear — home  to  these  arms, 
And  go  ye  out  of  Rome  with  all  your  train. 
I  will  shed  blood  no  more  ;  for  I  have  known 
What  sort  of  peace  deep-glutted  vengeance  brings. 
My  son  is  brave,  but  of  a  gentler  mind 
Than  I  have  been.     His  eyes  shall  never  more 
Be  grieved  with  sight  of  sinless  blood  pour'd  forth 
From  tortured  veins.     Go  forth,  ye  gentle  two ! 
Children  of  her  who  might  perhaps  have  pour'd 
Her  own  meek  spirit  o'er  my  nature  stern, 
Since  the  bare  image  of  her  buried  charms, 


ELIZABETH    PARK.  313 

Soft  gleaming  from  your  youthful  brows,  hath  pow'r 
To  stir  my  spirit  thus  !     But  go  ye  forth ! 
Ye  leave  an  alter'd  and  a  milder  man 
Than  him  ye  sought.     Tell  Paulus  this, 
To  quicken  his  young  steps. 

Miriam.  Now  may  the  peace 

That  follows  just  and  worthy  deeds  be  thine ! 
And  may  deep  truths  be  born,  mid  thy  remorse, 
In  the  recesses  of  thy  soul,  to  make 
That  soul  ev'n  yet  a  shrine  of  holiness. 

Euphas.  Piso!  how  shall  we  pass  yon  steelclad 
Keeping  stern  vigil  round  the  dungeon  gate  1  [men, 

Piso.  Take  ye  my  well-known  ring — and  here — 

the  list — 
Ay,  this  is  it,  methinks  :  show  these — Great  gods ! 

Euphas.  What  is  there  on  yon  scroll  which  shakes 
him  thus  ? 

Miriam.  A  name,  at  which  he  points  with'stifTning 
And  eyeballs  full  of  wrath !  Alas !  alas !  [hand, 
I  guess  too  well.  My  brother,  droop  thou  not. 

Piso.  Your  father,  did  ye  say  ?     Was  it  his  life 
Ye  came  to  beg  ] 

Miriam.  His  life  :  but  not  alone 

The  life  so  dear  to  us  ;  for  he  hath  friends 
Sharing  his  fetters  and  his  final  doom. 

Piso.  Little  reck  I  of  them.     Tell  me  his  name ! 

[A  pause. 
Speak,  boy !  or  I  will  tear  thee  piecemeal ! 

Miriam.  Stay ! 

Stem  son  of  violence !  the  name  thou  askest 
Is — Thraseno ! 

Piso.  Did  I  not  know  it,  girl  ? 

Now,  by  the  gods  !  had  I  not  been  entranced, 
I  sooner  had  conjectured  this.     Foul  name  ! 
Thus  do  I  tear  thee  out — and  even  thus 
Rend  with  my  teeth.     Oh  rage !  she  wedded  him, 
And  ever  since  that  hated  name  hath  been 
The  voice  of  serpents  in  mine  ear !     But  now — 
Why  go  ye  not  1    Here  is  your  list !  and  all, 
DD 


314  ELILABETH    PARK. 

Ay,  every  one  whose  name  is  here  set  down, 
Will  my  good  guard  release  to  you ! 

Miriam.  Piso ! 

In  mercy  mock  us  not !  children  of  her 
Whom  thou  didst  love — 

Piso.  Ay,  maid !  but  ye  are  his 

Whom  I  do  hate !     That  chord  is  broken  now— 
Its  music  hush'd !     Is  she  not  in  her  grave, 
And  he  within  my  grasp  ? 

Miriam.  Where  is  thy  peace, 

Thy  penitence ! 

Piso.  Fled  all ;  a  moonbeam  brief 

Upon  a  stormy  sea.     That  magic  name 
Hath  roused  the  wild,  loud  winds  again.    Begone ! 
Save  whom  ye  may. 

Miriam.  Piso  !  I  go  not  hence 

Until  my  father's  name  be  on  this  scroll. 

Piso.  Take  root,  then,  where  thou  art !  for,  by  dark 
I  swear —  [Styx, 

Miriam.      Nay,  swear  thou  not  till  I  am  heard. 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  son  '\ 

Piso.  No !  let  him  die, 

So  that  I  have  my  long-deferr'd  revenge ! 
Thy  lip  grows  pale !     Art  thou  not  answer'd  now  ? 

Miriam.  Deep  horrors  fall  upon  me  !     Can  it  be 
Such  demon  spirits  dwell  on  earth  ? 

Piso.  Maiden ! 

While  thou  art  safe,  go  hence  ;  for,  in  his  might, 
The  tiger  wakes  within  me ! 

Miriam.  Be  it  so. 

He  can  but  rend  me  where  I  stand.     And  here, 
Living  or  dying,  will  I  raise  my  voice 
In  a  firm  hope  !     The  God  that  brought  me  here 
Is  round  me  in  the  silent  air.     On  me 
Falleth  the  influence  of  an  unseen  Eye ! 
A  nd,  in  the  strength  of  secret,  earnest  pray'r, 
This  awful  consciousness  doth  nerve  my  frame. 
Thou  man  of  evil  and  ungovern'd  soul ! 
My  father  thou  mayst  slay !    Flames  will  not  fall 


ELIZABETH    PARK.  315 

From  heaven  to  scorch  and  wither  thee !    The  earth 
Will  ope  not  underneath  thy  feet !  and  peace, 
Mock,  hollow,  seeming  peace,  may  shadow  still 
Thy  home  and  hearth !    But  deep  within  thy  breast 
A  fierce,  consuming  fire  shall  ever  dwell. 
Each  night  shall  ope  a  gulf  of  horrid  dreams 
To  swallow  up  thy  soul.     The  livelong  day 
That  soul  shall  yearn  for  peace  and  quietness, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks, 
And  know  that  even  in  death  is  no  repose  ! 
And  this  shall  be  thy  life  !     Then  a  dark  hour 
Will  surely  come — 

Piso.  Maiden,  be  warn'd !     All  this 

I  know.     It  moves  me  not. 

Miriam.  Nay,  one  thing  more 

Thou  knowest  not.     There  is  on  all  this  earth — 
Full  as  it  is  of  young  and  gentle  hearts — 
One  man  alone  that  loves  a  wretch  like  thee : 
And  he,  thou  sayst,  must  die  !     All  other  eyes 
Do  greet  thee  with  a  cold  or  wrathful  look, 
Or,  in  the  baseness  of  their  fear,  shun  thine  ; 
And  he  whose  loving  glance  alone  spake  peace, 
Thou  sayst  must  die  in  youth !     Thou  know'st  not 
The  deep  and  bitter  sense  of  loneliness,  [yet 

The  throes  and  achings  of  a  childless  heart, 
Which  yet  will  all  be  thine !     Thou  know'st  not  yet 
What  'tis  to  wander  mid  thy  spacious  halls, 
And  find  them  desolate  !  wildly  to  start 
From  thy  deep  musings  at  the  distant  sound 
Of  voice  or  step  like  his,  and  sink  back  sick — 
Ay  !  sick  at  heart — with  dark  remembrances  ! 
When,  in  his  bright  and  joyous  infancy, 
His  laughing  eyes  amid  thick  curls  sought  thine, 
And  his  soft  arms  were  twined  around  thy  neck, 
And  his  twin  rosebud  lips  just  lisp'd  thy  name — • 
Yet  feel  in  agony  'tis  but  a  dream  ! 
Thou  know'st  not  yet  what  'tis  to  lead  the  van 
Of  armies  hurrying  on  to  victory, 
Yet,  in  the  pomp  and  glory  of  that  hour, 


316  ELIZABETH    PARK. 

Sadly  to  miss  the  well-known  snowy  plume, 
Whereon  thine  eyes  were  ever  proudly  fix'd 
In  battle-field !  to  sit,  at  deep  midnight, 
Alone  within  thy  tent,  all  shuddering, 
When,  as  the  curtain'd  door  lets  in  the  breeze, 
Thy  fancy  conjures  up  the  gleaming  arms 
And  bright  young  hero-face  of  him  who  once 
Had  been  most  welcome  there !  and,  worst  of  all— 

Piso.  It  is  enough  !     The  gift  of  prophecy 
Is  on  thee,  maid  !     A  pow'r  that  is  not  thine 
Looks  out  from  that  dilated,  awful  form — 
Those  eyes,  deep-flashing  with  unearthly  light — 
And  stills  my  soul.     My  Paulus  must  not  die ! 
And  yet,  to  give  up  thus  the  boon — 

Miriam.  What  boon  ! 

A  boon  of  blood  ?     To  him,  the  good  old  man, 
Death  is  not  terrible,  but  only  seems 
A  dark,  short  passage  to  a  land  of  light, 
Where,  mid  high  ecstasy,  he  shall  behold 
Th'  unshrouded  glories  of  his  Maker's  face, 
And  learn  all  mysteries,  and  gaze  at  last 
Upon  th'  ascended  Prince,  and  never  more 
Know  grief  or  pain,  or  part  from  those  he  loves! 
Yet  will  his  blood  cry  loudly  from  the  dust, 
And  bring  deep  vengeance  on  his  murderer ! 

Piso.  My  Paulus  must  not  die  \    Let  me  revolve— 
Maiden!  thy  words  have  sunk  into  my  soul; 
Yet  would  I  ponder  ere  I  thus  lay  down 
A  purpose  cherish'd  in  my  inmost  heart, 
That  which  hath  been  my  dream  by  night,  by  day 
My  life's  sole  aim.     Have  I  not  deeply  sworn, 
Long  years  ere  thou  wert  born,  that,  should  the  gods 
E'er  give  him  to  my  rage — and  yet  I  pause  1 
Shall  Christian  vipers  sting  mine  only  son, 
And  I  not  crush  them  into  nothingness? 
Am  I  so  pinion'd,  vain,  and  powerless  ? 
Work,  busy  brain !  thy  cunning  must  not  fail. 

[Retires. 

THE   END, 


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FAMILY    LIBRARY. 


ji's  History        I  ?5V 
tVith  Pistes  3  v. 
iapoieon-.-  2v« 
of  Nelson  1  v, 

Jreat I  v, 

f  insects.  !stv. 


tgton,..  2v. 
Living,  iv. 
rth.~..  IT. 
Iv. 

i  .....  t  »    *&  V, 

of  &e 
Iv. 

;t-.«*i..  IT. 
tstory,  Sdv, 
... 


.  :     i    eology  £v. 
-      I  B  rds..  Iv. 
.    :.    ivens..  Iv, 
Disordered 

...  Iv. 
,:....  2  V. 
Arts  1  y 

f  Quadrupeds  1  v, 
tfungoPark.  1  v. 
s  before  tbe 

Iv. 

>,-.,  2v. 

.     i  -. 


.49,  History  of  India---. 
6U.  Brewsteron  Natural  Magic  I 
51, 52.  History  of  Ireland 2 

53.  Northern  Coasts  of  America  1 

54,  HumbuhH's  Travels ......  1 

,.u!er'sKai.  Ph:: 

: 
58.  Aber, 


.'!,.     1  V. 

iodore 

2v. 


128.  Brace's  1 
tures  

129.  Lives  of  Jay  and  13 

CLASSICAL  SERIES. 

tiophon.    Portrait-,. 

3,  4.  Lei-ind's  Demosthenes.. 

8,  9,  10.  Cicero.     Portrait.... 
11.  12.  Virgil.     Portrait...... 


n  1  v. 


2v. 
2v. 
J  v 
2V. 
3v. 
2v 
Iv, 
Iv. 
3v. 


71.  Corns 

72.  Turn 

73.  History  of  Barbury 

74.  Natural  History  of  Insects,  2dv.  I  36.  Findar  and  Anac/eon... 

BOYS'  AND  GIKI.S*  LIBRARY,   IN  32 


socles • 

15,  16,  17.  Euripides--. 

18,  19.  Horace  and  Phsedrua. .  2v« 

20,  21.  Ovid.    Portrait ........  2  v. 

T&uejdides ST. 

24,  25,  26,  'J7,  28.  Ltvy 6  v. 

;:I.  Herodotus 3v 

,  o-i.  Homer............  3v. 

Iv 


